


The World and Its Beautiful Particle Logic

by die_traumerei



Series: The Sprawl of Life [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Babies, Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Genderbending, Healing, Kissing, Light Angst, Original Character(s), Other, Past Abuse, Sex-Positive Asexuality, Slice of Life, Snake!Crowley - Freeform, Tickling, Trauma, Village life, like it's obvious they're not even a bit human, really weird sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2020-10-13 18:14:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 39,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20586857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/die_traumerei/pseuds/die_traumerei
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are settled in their cottage and with their lives. That doesn't mean the world stops turning, though. It's only the start of the next adventure.Mostly slice-of-life, mostly sweet and funny. Though sometimes that life means dealing with the whole trauma-caused-by-Heaven/Hell thing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yay! The story continues!
> 
> I suppose this could be read on its own, but I'd really, really recommend starting with Demolishing Proofs We Never Believed In; it sets up their journeys and changes so far, and there are quite a few references to things that happened in that story.
> 
> The title of this story, and of the series as a whole, comes from Angels in America.

Aziraphale unlocked the door to the bookshop and let them in. He quickly turned on the lights against the autumn gloom, and sighed when he saw the floor. “Ugh, that. Right.”

“I'll put the kettle on,” Crowley offered as he slipped past the angel. He carefully avoided the golden footprints. A little experimentation[1] had shown that he had higher-than-usual tolerance for Aziraphale's particular holiness, but wouldn't do to tempt fate. He _still_ remembered the feel of the church floor on his feet, and he'd had blisters for days afterwards. No thank you.

He came back with two mugs of tea, brewed strong and hot as they both liked it, to find Aziraphale hauling a long, narrow rug out of some storage cupboard previously hidden behind a few stacks of books.

“Oh good, I thought I still had this,” Aziraphale said, while Crowley wondered when he'd ever voluntarily gotten rid of anything in his life. 

Crowley pitched in with unrolling the thing, and with miracle-ing away a century of dust, a few generations of mouse nests, and the latest scion of said mouse family, who was very confused but also very content to suddenly find himself amidst the leaf litter in a quiet corner of Windsor Park.

Aziraphale looked at the addition to his shop critically, and accepted his mug of tea. “Well, that will do. Are you able to walk on it now, dear?”

Crowley shrugged and walked the length of the new carpet, making a face when he got to the end.

“No good?” Aziraphale asked sadly.

“Better,” Crowley comforted him. It had felt like needles pushing into his feet, but he wasn't going to tell a sensitive angel that. “Easy enough to avoid.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I suppose so. I don't like it. I don't want a reminder of that day.”

“I know,” Crowley said, joining Aziraphale on the sofa, and happily accepting the arm around his shoulders, the invitation to snuggle a little. His feet still burned a bit, and it was nice to sit and not think about that. Hopefully they'd heal, or there would be some trouble at bedtime. 

Instead he kissed Aziraphale's shoulder and nuzzled the spot as he got comfortable, because that was the thing to do with Aziraphale, and also it made him go rather gooey and sweet. 

“Oh, I love you so,” Aziraphale said, and pressed a long kiss to Crowley's head. “Poor thing, you've got to listen to me grumble.”

“Aziraphale, I have listened to you grumble for six thousand years,” Crowley said, not even pretending to hide his charm at his beloved trying and failing to be a selfless angel. “Come on, then. What do you want to do tonight? We're in London after all, got the whole world at our feet. When was the last time you were in Cherbourg?” he asked thoughtfully. “Or somewhere other than our regular spots, even.”

“I like our regular spots,” Aziraphale defended himself. “They're...regular. And quite good, after all. Or else we wouldn't go there all the time.”

Crowley laughed. “Well, all right then. Dinner's settled.”

“No,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully. “I want to stay in London, if you don't mind. But someplace new.” 

Crowley felt the universe bend, and the body against his change in small but very measurable ways. 

“It's easier to not have to explain,” Aziraphale said, as her wavy silver hair cascaded down onto Crowley's face. “And I don't want us to get thrown out on account of you walking out behind my back if I _don't_ get recognized.”

“Angel!” Crowley sat up, eyes lighting up. Oh, this was a treat to end all treats. “Are you sure? You never, ever have to do this for me, you know that, right?”

Aziraphale laughed and caught Crowley's hand, kissing the back of it. “I know, silly. I want to. It feels nice to be pretty.” She stretched a little and cricked her neck and smiled at him. “What about you, darling?”

Crowley shook his head. “I think I'll stick with my usual.” He grinned, and kissed the inside of Aziraphale's wrist. “My turn to do your hair.” He smoothed a long lock out of her face, feeling breathless. Aziraphale was the most gorgeous being God ever made anyway, but there was something about the times he showed his female self that made Crowley go over all wild.

“Oh, please? And I've got some proper fancy date clothes put away somewhere.” She looked down at her outfit and smiled. “Well, a nice dress, anyway.”

Crowley nodded, a little mesmerized. “You're so beautiful,” he said, because he couldn't think of anything else to say.

“Thank you, love.” Aziraphale kissed Crowley's cheek and they finished their tea, snuggled together on the little sofa, making idle plans for the rest of their weekend in London.

Aziraphale  _did_ rustle up a dress. Of course it was many decades old and while not a tartan  _was_ a windowpane check, so she felt fairly comfortable slipping it on over some equally-antique undergarments and doing a little twirl for Crowley.

“Oh, goodness, I'd forgotten how _airy _dresses are,” she said dreamily, looking at herself in the full-length mirror. “Do I look all right, love?”

Crowley managed to not swallow his own tongue – just. “You look wonderful, angel,” he said, and he meant it. The dress was in the New Look style, if not actual Dior, Satan only knew where Aziraphale had gotten it. It put most of the faux-vintage Crowley had seen utterly to shame. 

It also suited Aziraphale's lush hourglass figure beautifully, and Crowley stepped up behind her, hands on her waist, to smile at them both in the mirror. “You're beautiful,” he said. “Always.”

Aziraphale laughed and turned and threw her arms around Crowley and kissed him. “You would say that,” she chided. “Oh, look how vain I am. It's a sin.” She paused. “Literally, actually.”

Crowley laughed and lifted her up, arms around her waist, and spun her 'round. “Don't care. You've earned it, darlin'. Why would you be made this way, if it weren't meant to be appreciated, anyway? Not by me, who cares what I think, but by  _you_ ?”

Aziraphale was so flustered she just held onto Crowley's shoulders for a long moment. “I care what you think,” she finally said, and rested her head on his shoulder. “Do my hair, please? I've got elastics and things in my coat pocket. And then I'll do yours, if you want.”

“Of course,” Crowley said, and sat her down in a chair before the mirror so she could look at herself, and love what she saw as God _surely_ intended. And even if God hadn't intended it, Crowley damn well did. 

He did them both proud, he thought. Aziraphale's hair was as long as his was now, curls softened into waves by the weight and thickness of it all. Crowley indulged himself in carefully combing it out, removing every hint of knot, and applying some of his vast collection of hair-care products until it was thick and shining and soft. He made two braids and wound them into a soft corona, giving her a crown, or a halo.

“There,” he said softly, and kissed her cheek. “Is that good, angel?”

Aziraphale touched her hair and smiled, and looked up at him. “Of course it is. Why are you being so kind to me?”

Crowley blinked. “I. You want me to...not?” he hazarded.

“No! No, of course not.” Aziraphale looked at the ground. “Forgive me. That was a terrible thing to ask.” 

“But you asked it,” Crowley said, and knelt by her. “So I'll answer you. It's because I love you. Because I'm so happy to have a weekend away with you, for all that we live together.” He took her hand. “Because the last time we were properly here, I nearly lost you. It scared me. You've started to have nightmares about that time, and that scares me too.” He paused, and breathed deeply. “Because you ever need to ask why someone's being kind to you, _anyone_, when that's all you've ever deserved in your life, and it makes me furious that Heaven's taught you to not _expect_ to be loved, or to love yourself.”

Aziraphale blinked. “Crowley. Oh.” She slid down from the chair, landing in a pouf of netted petticoat. “That's.” She smiled. “You've learnt to be honest and open and I don't know how I feel about it.”

“Don't get used to it,” Crowley grumbled, looking down. Aziraphale's skirts were spilling over his lap, and she was so close he could smell the perfume she'd found. “It's pretty awful.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, and hauled him into her arms, and her lap.

“I'll wrinkle your dress,” Crowley said.

“Oh, bollocks to my dress,” Aziraphale informed him prissily. “I want to hold you. _You_ deserve _that_ I think, hmm? Good for the goose, good for the gander?”

“I don't like you,” Crowley mumbled, and felt Aziraphale laugh. 

“Well, I love you. And you needn't _worry_ about me, darling. A few nightmares never hurt anybody. And we'll banish the bad memories, make new ones to take their place.”

“And Heaven's bullshit?” Crowley asked. His voice was uglier than he'd meant it to be.

Aziraphale sighed. “Well. You must admit, I'm not a very good angel.”

“_Bullshit_,” Crowley snapped. “I don't accept that. Sure, you were bad at your assignment. So was I. That's not the same thing.”

“It...actually is?” Aziraphale hazarded.

“Isn't.” Crowley curled up, feeling baleful and furious. He ought to've burned Gabriel when he had the chance. 

“Well, let's not fight anyway,” Aziraphale said. “It'll ruin our lovely weekend.”

“So when we're back home...?”

Aziraphale caught sight of a grin, and threw her head back and laughed. “Sly old thing. Yes, we can have a proper domestic  _when we're home_ . Now get up, darling, it's your turn under the brush. Requests?”

“Something simple,” Crowley decided. “Elegant.” Something that would keep his hair out of his face, and let Aziraphale be the star, of the two of them.

“I know just the thing.” Aziraphale gave him a little shove and got up herself, sitting Crowley firmly in the chair she'd abandoned and getting to work taming his curls.

They made a particularly fine couple that night, Crowley thought, silver-white and blood red-black. Aziraphale turned heads and poked him when the waves of smugness radiating off of him got a bit too strong.

“Pride is a _sin_,” Crowley hissed at him while they cut through a busy street. He had Aziraphale's arm in his, and was glaring at anyone who came within touching distance of his angel. “Sinning's what I _do_, darling.”

“Love isn't a sin,” Aziraphale said, far too primly even for her. “And you seem to do plenty of _that_.”

Crowley was so annoyed he didn't speak to her until Aziraphale spotted a little pop-up gourmet ice cream stand, and with an  _oooh_ ! they were cutting through the crowds, Crowley carried along by a very determined angel.

Aziraphale got Earl Grey and Crowley got fennel, and both were pleased with themselves and their treat, just a little amuse-bouche, Aziraphale said, as they whiled away a bit of time until dinner. 

They window-shopped and wandered from park to park, always finding a bench miraculously free so they could sit a little, and watch the world, and Crowley could slip an arm around Aziraphale's waist and flirt, and call her his best girl.

Aziraphale blushed and giggled and was flattered all through dinner, and through their walk back home, hand-in-hand as lovers did. Crowley neatly avoided the rug covering holy angelic footprints; at least his feet had stopped hurting, so perhaps all would be well.

He was the only one who could say that, it turned out, as Aziraphale settled with a happy sound and kicked her shoes off, well across the room. “Oof. I've gone too long without wearing heels, my dear, to start up again.”

Crowley smiled, and pulled her feet into his lap, so Aziraphale lay against the arm of the sofa. He started in on a massage, careful not to tickle while Aziraphale groaned with pleasure. “Oh, my dear. You spoil me.”

“Well, obviously.” Crowley watched Aziraphale blur a little. “Done being pretty?”

“A bit,” Aziraphale admitted, and closed his eyes with a happy sigh.

Crowley kept up his massage, feeling little shifts in the world, and smiled at him when Aziraphale opened his eyes again. They were the loveliest hazel, he thought, knowing he was utterly gone. “Oooh, didn't work I'm afraid. You're still pretty.”

Aziraphale laughed and gave him a little kick. “You're awful.”

“I know, I'm a demon,” Crowley said gleefully. “Now relax, if I don't finish this your feet'll ache tomorrow, and you'll bitch while we're at the National Gallery.”

“I will not,” Aziraphale said hotly, which was kind of ruined by both the groan he gave and the fact that they both knew full well he would bitch mightily, in between enjoying the exhibition that had brought them to London in the first place.

Crowley woke up when it was still dark, a little muzzy and confused at first. He was  _retired_ , sleeping through the night was his  _thing_ now.

“I won't _fail_,” Aziraphale moaned, his voice dropping low and rumbly, and Crowley woke up faster.

“Shh, shh, shh,” he whispered, rolling over so he could wrap his arms around Aziraphale. “Angel, it's a dream, you're safe.” 

“Nnn--” Aziraphale's eyes flew open as he made an ugly sound, then coughed. “Crowley. Forgive me. I woke you, didn't I?”

“Not important,” Crowley started.

“Oh, but it is, I'm so sor--”

“Not. Important,” Crowley said firmly. “I don't need to sleep. What were you dreaming about, Aziraphale?” He stroked his angel's soft curls, tried to guide him into snuggling a little closer.

Aziraphale was quiet for a moment.

“Heaven,” he finally mumbled. “I dreamed about Heaven. Gabriel. All've them.”

“You're free of them now,” Crowley reminded him. “Just a nightmare.”

Aziraphale smiled, a sickly thing in the dim light. “Yes. I know. It wasn't a nightmare. A memory. But you're right, of course. It's the past.”

“Oh, my angel.” Crowley rested his hand on Aziraphale's cheek. “I love you.”

Aziraphale's smile improved noticeably. “I know. I love you too.” He went a little easier into Crowley's arms, tucked up under his chin and settling with a soft sigh. “I  _am_ sorry I woke you.”

“I'm not. Makes no sense, you having a nightmare on your own. What's the _point_ of having a boyfriend, if he can't wake you up and give you a kiss? Huh. Thought you were the smart one.”

He felt Aziraphale shrink away for a moment, just for a moment, but he was soft and heavy again just as Crowley registered the cringe.  _Very_ interesting. Something to file away. In a very detailed file. Marked 'People Who Hurt Aziraphale And Therefore Must Suffer'. If it were real, it would be one of those expandable accordion files. Crowley kept meticulous mental notes, should the opportunity for a little chat about how to treat soft angels ever arise.[2]

“I'm not sorry at all,” Crowley whispered. “You wake me anytime you like, angel.” He threw a leg over Aziraphale's hip, just to drive home the whole 'I am your boyfriend or possibly husband or possibly another word we haven't yet discovered for what we are' thing.

“I'll remind you of that when we have to do the shopping and you're a snake,” Aziraphale said, and nestled a little closer.

That was all right then. If Aziraphale was already pondering how to use Crowley's lovesick words to his advantage, everything was going to be all right. And if, for some reason, it wasn't, Crowley would be there just the same.

Crowley still stayed awake until he was sure Aziraphale was asleep, and untroubled by dreams.

1 Aziraphale had got a small but impressive papercut, and Crowley had been recruited to apply the plaster. Aziraphale's blood, it turned out, gave him a bit of a burn, and there been a brief return to the first-aid kit with a very guilty angel.

“I suppose it's holy,” he admitted.

“Then I got off lucky,” Crowley said, and they had taken themselves out to lunch to settle their nerves.[return to text]

2 As a gardener, Crowley felt quite adept at making things arise even when they were very reluctant. Or were against the wall gibbering and going 'oh no Mr Crowley sir I promise it won't ever happen again!', while Crowley ensured that, no matter what, it definitely wouldn't.[return to text]


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale was in the window seat, catching the sun while it lasted. Crowley was in the front garden, and wasn't even yelling at anything too loudly, so it was all really quite peaceful. He settled with a contented sigh, and touched one of the roses that ringed the bay window, smiling at the pretty bloom. “Lovely,” he breathed, and grinned in delight when two rosebuds appeared on either side of it. “Oh, look how good you are!”

“Hey, angel.” Crowley came over to the open window with a dahlia and a smile. “For you.” He slipped the flower into Aziraphale's buttonhole, and accepted a delighted kiss.

“Oh, my dear, thank you. Wait – may I borrow your secateurs?” Aziraphale asked, and of course Crowley obliged.

He examined the climbing roses carefully – only the most perfect bloom for his demon boy would do.  _Snip snip snip_ , and he was tucking tiny, exquisite roses into Crowley's hair, weaving them into the heavy braid. “There,” he said. “That will do nicely.”

“Thank you,” Crowley said, reaching back to touch the soft petals, and with a pretty soft smile on his face to boot. Aziraphale reeled him in for another kiss, and finally released Crowley back to his work, and himself back to his book. Summer was lingering this year, and he intended to enjoy every moment of it.

Retirement suited them, he thought, abandoning his book in favour of watching Crowley intimidate a rosebush that was just doing its best. He had worried a little that they – that Crowley, really – would be bored within a month. That a quiet life wouldn't be enough for them. And, later, that loving each other wouldn't be enough, compared to the world. 

Aziraphale had been surprised to learn just how far from boring life could be. He had his books, of course, and his knitting circle and had recently joined a local historical society. Crowley had a smaller social circle, but they were making friends. Going to church fetes and lock-in's at their local, and spending a weekend in London or Cardiff or Edinburgh ticked away their busy days.

And, of course, loving each other was enough. More than enough. More than he'd ever dreamed of, and Aziraphale smiled a little wider as he watched Crowley's lean body bend and move and work under the sun. 

To say that Crowley did not show signed of being bored by Aziraphale was an understatement. Of course they did their own things at times, but they always came back to one another, drawn as if by a gravity well. And Crowley  _loved_ him. It was breathtaking, and it was unexpected. Aziraphale was pretty sure it was unearned, but he wasn't going to quibble. Not when he had his demon boy there to tease him along and lavish kisses and caresses. Aziraphale had never been so petted in his whole long life, and he often felt as though he were a rose himself, blooming under Crowley's care and attention. 

Crowley hung on his every word. He  _cared_ about what Aziraphale was reading, or what he'd done that day, or a problem in his knitting. He gave Aziraphale little gifts, and brought him cups of tea and cocoa when the previous ones grew cold because he had got distracted. Sure, he laughed at Aziraphale, but it was kind, and he took Aziraphale's teasing in return with mock-indignation and a kiss, just to reassure them both. 

Aziraphale was loved, and he loved, and they would never grow bored of this. He knew this deep in himself, now that he'd had a chance to live it. Life without Crowley right there was unimaginable.

He pulled his mind back to the here and now, and watched Crowley work, his book utterly neglected and Aziraphale wasn't sorry one bit. They'd have to cool off under their apple trees later. Perhaps Crowley would sprawl on the ground again while Aziraphale took the bench, and he would drape an arm over Aziraphale's knees. He could rest his head there, and gaze up and tell some wild story about Paris in the fifteenth century, or annoying the Neolithic people who built the causeways some thousands of years ago not very far from where they lived now.

Aziraphale smiled, daydreaming of all of this, and finally, musing and loving and meditating over, returned happily to his reading.

“Did you ever think you would love this kind of a life?” Aziraphale asked Crowley. They had opted to go out for dinner, to drive a few towns over and try a new restaurant. 

“No,” Crowley admitted. “No, wait. Yes. But I never thought I'd _get_ it,” he tried to explain. “I never wanted to be...anybody,” he said. “The thing in the Garden was an outlier.” He smiled wryly. “I _am_ no one in Hell. Principality Aziraphale,” he teased.

“Oh _really_, don't start with that,” Aziraphale huffed. Their difference in rank was an unending source of delight for Crowley.[3] “It's not like it meant anything to anyone.”

“Mmmhmm.” Crowley thought of all the queer young people through the ages that had found their way to a gentle man – well, usually-man-shaped being – and came away blessed. Knowing they were loved. Sometimes with a cup of tea inside of them, or a meal, or just with the kindness of an angel who actually bothered to love people. Though, of course, Aziraphale was not thinking of those under his protection, but the other angels, when he dismissed himself as unimportant.

Crowley reached for Aziraphale's hand and kissed his knuckles because he could, and touched his cheek to Aziraphale's signet ring, to gather his own kind of blessing.

“I do love you so,” Aziraphale murmured. “You deserve this happy life.”

Crowley smiled at him, and let him have his hand back. “Well. Deserve or not, I never thought I'd have it. Not really a thing most demons get, hey?”

“Helps when you're not most demons,” Aziraphale pointed out, and smiled, sweet and wistful. “Or most angels. My dear, I think we've gone native.”

“What was your first clue?” Crowley teased.

“The same as yours,” Aziraphale said. “When I gave that bloody flaming sword away.”

Crowley allowed himself a moment to be a little overwhelmed. That moment – when the world was new and he was pretty new himself, and he fell in love in an instant. He had wrapped himself in that moment sometimes, on long dark nights. Up until just over a year ago, anyway. Now he could wrap himself in an actual angel instead, and Aziraphale would coo and fuss and kiss his head and tell him he was loved and perfect and perfectly loved.

“All right, then?” Aziraphale asked softly, when Crowley had been silent for a few beats.

Crowley nodded, cleared his throat, and doctored himself with a sip of wine. “Fine, fine,” he said breezily. “These scallops are exceptional, you must have a taste.”

Aziraphale happily helped himself to a fork-ful, savouring the silky texture. “Oh, divine,” he said happily, after touching his napkin to his lips. “Will you try some of this cottage pie? I think you'll quite like it.”

Crowley politely tasted a little bit, and agreed that it was good indeed, and added this place to his mental list of 'where to bring Aziraphale to indulge him'. It was a long list, but would never, quite, be long enough.

Talk turned to inconsequential things, which carried them through dinner and the journey home. Crowley pulled into the drive next to their cottage, the Bentley's headlights picking out the facade. The climbing roses had flourished under Aziraphale's care (which was likely just a response to his presence – he hadn't  _done_ very much, really) and now nearly blanketed the front of the house. There were books just visible on the other side of the bay window, and an abandoned mug that had once held tea. The front garden had been terrified into good behaviour. 

“It's a good life we've made ourselves,” Aziraphale said quietly, the two of them still in the car, still taking in that this was _theirs_.

“Couldn't ask for better,” Crowley agreed, and swallowed hard. “Love you, angel.” He found Aziraphale's hand in the dark.

“I love you too,” Aziraphale said, with a tender little squeeze. “Come on. Let's go inside, darling.”

Crowley didn't tell him that he was, sometimes, just a little afraid that this was all a trick. That it would dissolve in smoke and he'd be back in Hell. A fresh torment; to lose everything he loved best in the world. And if he could stay safe in his car, with his angel, he wouldn't see it disappear in Beelzebub's laughter.

But that was stupid, of course. This was his life, and it was real. He took Aziraphale's hand during the short walk to their front door, though, just to reassure himself.

Aziraphale let them in, and turned on the light to their front room.

“Hello, Crowley,” said the demon sat in Aziraphale's chair. “So good to see you again.”

3 “I landed myself a  _classy_ angel!” he once exclaimed in delight, when Aziraphale was bitching about something a lower-ranking angel had done. “Look at me! I've got  _taste_ !”

“You do not,” Aziraphale had told him. He didn't find quite the same joy in the difference, but he didn't mind it so much, and it clearly delighted Crowley.

“I do! Got me a _principality_,” Crowley bragged. “Not bad for a demon of no repute.”

Aziraphale had thrown a balled-up paper napkin at him, and still believed Crowley deserved it.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and for leaving kudos and comments. It really, really makes a difference to know other people like reading these stories as much as I like writing them.
> 
> (sorry for a bit of a short chapter, but I promise the next one makes up for it!)
> 
> Oop, I almost forgot -- this chapter is very definitely dedicated to the woman at the WI in some small down in South Wales who once recited her post-retirement schedule to me. It was incredible. She was a *powerhouse* of volunteering and running the WI and community groups. I was tired listening to her.   
There are so, so many people like her, and they are all wonderful.


	3. Chapter 3

“_Hasssstur_,” Crowley hissed, stepping forward, shielding Aziraphale with his body. “Get out. Get out of his chair. Get out of our house.”

“No,” Duke Hastur said, smiling a terrible smile. “I won't. Think you're better than us. Think you're the _best_, to get an angel. To outsmart our Master. You're nothing, Crowley, and you should have nothing.”

Crowley opened his mouth, not sure how to argue with what, deep in his heart, he knew was absolutely true, but willing to try.

“Oh, for the fuck of shit,” Aziraphale said. Both Crowley and Hastur were stunned into silence to hear such language from him. So he took advantage of the rare and precious moment to nip _all_ of this in the bud.

Aziraphale snapped out his wings and stepped around Crowley, standing before him and blocking him from Hastur's view. “Go  _away_ , you dreadful thing.” He looked Hastur up and down, and was clearly unimpressed with what he saw. “I said,” he repeated, in a voice that was starting to sound like bells. “Go.  _Away_ .” He snapped his fingers and, with a surprised scream, the Duke of Hell vanished in blue flames.

“Ugh,” Aziraphale said, and checked the floor under his feet. “Well, at least I won't have to get a carpet for here, too,” he said. He went over to check his chair, but found it untouched. There was a faint lingering smell of sulphur and some seriously cheap ditchweed, but that was dissipating. He opened a window anyway.

“What.” Crowley licked his lips. “What just happened?”

“Some absolute idiot thought he could _intimidate_ us,” Aziraphale said. He was bristling in indignation. “As though he had any claim on our lives! Good heavens, I hope your side is ashamed of his stupidity.”

“What did you...do to him?” Crowley asked curiously, as his brain gibbered in the background.

“Oh, sent him back to Hell with a _very_ sharp note, so to speak.” Aziraphale went over to a sideboard (genuine mid-century modern, courtesy Crowley) and poured them each a glass of whiskey. “If he comes back, I'll turn him into a grease spot, and he knows it now, too.”

“Right,” Crowley said faintly. When he closed his eyes, he could see Aziraphale moving around the room. Well. He could see a ten-foot tall creature with a halo and flames in their robes and eyes of lapis and holy rage. “Darling? Do you think you could...turn down the angelic just a hair?”

“Oh, no, am I giving you a sunburn again? I'm sorry, love.” There was a sound, a dissonant chord, and Crowley could close his eyes and see nothing again.

“Thank you,” Crowley said, and dropped into Aziraphale's chair, because it was close and it was Aziraphale's and he was suddenly very, very afraid. He was supposed to be _paranoid_, not _right_.

Aziraphale handed him his glass of whiskey, and a kiss on the forehead to go with it. “Be not afraid,” he said gently. “You're safe.”

“You don't know that,” Crowley said. “We have to go, angel. We have to...to hide from them. Oh, fuck.” He buried his face in one hand. “I shouldn't have...we never should have done this. You're not safe.”

“Stop that right now,” Aziraphale said, and his voice _did_ sound like bells. “Don't speak to me like I actually _am _a silly old retired bookseller, Demon Crowley. I'm the Principality Aziraphale, and I beat Michael and I can beat Hell. Again.”

Crowley was shaking. “No, no, you don't understand. They came  _here_ , they know where we are. I'm sorry angel, I love this place too, but we have to run. We can keep moving, keep ahead of them.” He knocked his drink back in one. “Don't pack anything, love, it's safer that way. We have each other, that's enough.”

“We. Are. Not. Running.” Aziraphale pushed Crowley back into his chair and knelt before him. “Oh, my darling. My poor love. You need to understand. We're safe. You think I don't have wards up, twenty layers deep? You think I don't know who knows about us and how much they care?”

Crowley shook his head. “I have that too, and I missed it, I  _missed_ Hastur, he got in.”

“Well, of course he did. I'm only blocking the really dangerous ones. I wanted to be able to send a message back, after all, if someone was just terrifically stupid.” Aziraphale took Crowley's hands in his and kissed his palms, a blessing to keep Crowley safe. “Do you trust me, darling?”

Crowley's throat clicked as he swallowed. “Yes.”

“I _mean_ it. I need you to trust me. We aren't running. We aren't leaving.” Aziraphale's voice was no longer soft. “_My_ home. _My_ demon, _my_ beloved. My life, and my freedom. _My_ roses, and my chair, _my_ books. No one takes them away from me. I would die to save you, Crowley, and more than that, I'd _live_ to save you. Save us both. I'm selfish and lazy and I like the good things in life, and I will not give them up. From the way you smile when you wake up in my arms to the smallest, sourest apple on our trees, they are _mine_ and I will keep them safe.”

Crowley inhaled, a shuddering breath. “Oh. Angel. Principality...”

“Your angel,” Aziraphale said, smiling. “Always yours. Crowley, I love you. You're happier than I've ever seen you before. I love our house and our friends and our village. Please, please, trust me. There may be...small bumps, from time to time. An angel or a demon who think they can take us. They cannot. Trust me when I say that Satan and God both no longer care about us.”

Crowley slid out of the chair and into Aziraphale's lap, and his arms. “Promise me?”

“I promise. I swear to you. Oh, my love.” Aziraphale cradled him, all his anger and strength concealed again, and it was Crowley's silly, fussy lover spilled across the floor, cuddling and kissing him through his fears. “Next time I'll let you be the one to set him on fire,” he offered generously.

This, more than anything else, seemed to break Crowley's terror, and he couldn't help a giggle. “I already have,” he admitted. “So now we're even.”

Aziraphale threw his head back and laughed, and kissed Crowley tenderly. “Good demon.”

Crowley made a face, but he was smiling again, and he  _did_ feel safe in Aziraphale's arms. “Sorry. About...everything.”

“Now, then, no need for that,” Aziraphale chided gently. “You've talked me down plenty of times. I meant it, though. I'm selfish, and I intend to never give you up, never give up an ounce of this joy. We'll have to be careful, I think,” he said thoughtfully. “Protect each other. We're good at that. But we _can_ keep ourselves safe.”

“You deserve it,” Crowley said. “All the safety, and all the joy.”

“And all the love I could ever want, and that's you,” Aziraphale said. “So ha. We're in this together, now.”

“I'd hope so,” Crowley said, and pressed his face against Aziraphale's neck, breathing in the soft smells of his cologne and his shirt and _him_. A little angelic perfume lingered, and tickled Crowley's nose, and he sneezed.

Aziraphale laughed and helped him up, then refreshed his glass. Anything that had been of Hastur had drifted away in the autumn breezes, and Crowley closed the window again, adding a little to the seal of protection he'd laid there after Aziraphale had fought Michael, just in case.

“You're not tired, are you?” he asked, suddenly concerned, a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder when he'd re-taken his chair. “You fought Hastur...sort of...”

“Oh, like last time?” Aziraphale smiled up at him. “Of course not. That was nothing. Oh, Crowley, I do so love that you take care of me.” He tugged the demon down for a soft kiss, before releasing him to his own easy chair. “This was nothing, in comparison to Michael.”

“Oh,” Crowley said. “Well. That's good.”

“You just want to keep me in bed for a whole day again,” Aziraphale teased.

“Well...” Crowley smiled, his nerves slowly calming. Very slowly. It would be some time before he relaxed again, before he truly trusted that this was theirs, for as long as they wanted it. But it would happen again, given time to heal.

He tried not to freak out when he woke up before Aziraphale the next morning. It probably mostly worked, he was pretty sure, until Aziraphale's eyes opened, and he gifted Crowley with a sleepy smile.

“Oh, don't fuss. I'm retired, I can sleep in,” he grumped, but gently, and he also squirmed into Crowley's arms like he was born to settle there, giving them both the comfort of touch.

“'Course you can,” Crowley muttered, rather ruining it by the way he pressed his face into Aziraphale's hair, nuzzling his curls. “Never said you couldn't.”

Aziraphale just patted his chest and settled into Crowley's arms for a good, long cuddle. Not saying anything, just giving him what he needed.

Crowley's heart felt bent and tired. He should be the one doing for Aziraphale; make up for being useless when he came home to see Hastur sitting where only his true love should be. He should, he should, he should – but he couldn't, and wasn't that the story of his being.

He turned into a snake before Aziraphale could clock that he was crying, because oh  _somebody_ he didn't need that too.

“Oh! Hello, pretty.” Aziraphale gave him a sleepy smile and petted his scaly back. “Will you stay with me today, please?” he asked. “Around my shoulders or in my pocket or whatever you like.” He smiled as Crowley definitely casually twined himself around Aziraphale's arm. It was nice, but there was fabric between them, so he made his way up to his love's neck, and coiled himself up there, head just beside Aziraphale's throat. Body loose, of course, never close to too tight, but he touched warm skin all down his snakey body, and hissed in relief.

“Oh yes, please. I love that,” Aziraphale assured him. “I'll leave my collar unbuttoned for you, all right darling?” A gentle fingertip on Crowley's head. “I love you so. A quiet day will be just the thing for us.”

And – it was. Or it was enough, anyway. Crowley didn't sleep, just tucked himself close to his beloved. He watched and was careful, but there wasn't a hint of Hell – or of Heaven, for that matter. Aziraphale pottered about making himself breakfast, humming along with Radio Three, which was obliging with some Purcell. It was a gray day, a bit chilly, but Aziraphale was warm under first his dressing gown and then a thick cardigan, and so Crowley was warm where he coiled soft around Aziraphale's throat.

“I love you,” Aziraphale reminded him once, but then mostly left him alone, aside from little pats on the head, or a gentle fingertip stroking his scales.

There may have been a certain amount of extra vigour when he sat down in his easy chair, but nothing anyone else would have noticed. He read, and put on a Frank Bridges record in acknowledgement of the existence of 20th-century music.[4] He knitted for a bit while he listened to The Archers; his circle was making caps for premature babies, and if there was a little blessing and a prayer knit into each one, well, no one needed to know.

Crowley let himself float in the quotidian tenderness, his whole body pressed against Aziraphale's skin. He could feel that they were both well; when he tasted he air just above Aziraphale's skin, his angel tasted like love and pleasure and relaxation. Perhaps a touch of concern about Crowley, but no urgency; they had time to simply be. To breathe and get used to feeling safe again.

Aziraphale settled in the windowseat at one point to watch the sky as the sun set, and he petted Crowley, and asked if he was warm enough, should he fetch a scarf?

Crowley, suffused in warmth, slid until his head was right by Aziraphale's ear, and darted his tongue out, a tiny kiss. No, he willed Aziraphale to understand. Everything was perfect. His angel should relax, and be happy, and Crowley would be happy with him.

“Well, all right,” Aziraphale said. “Just let me know if you get chilled. You don't want to snuggle in my pocket, it seems.”

A pocket, by definition, was a barrier between Crowley's scales and Aziraphale's skin, so yes, that was  _right_ out. And Crowley really was warm enough where he was; Aziraphale kindly radiated heat. Funny that; that they should be so well-matched like this. Maybe demons and angels were meant to pair off. Demons to unbend the angels a little, angels to keep demons warm. Maybe the world was arranged for such things; you had to have both, and they had to match. Maybe  _that_ was the ineffable plan...

Crowley woke with a start, astonished at himself that he'd fallen asleep. For hours! It was dark out, and Aziraphale had moved to his library, happily sat in the big, overstuffed chair up there. The lamp he had lit was gold, a pool of beautiful light spilling over the book he was reading, but leaving most of the room in shadow.

“Oh! Hello, sleepyhead.” Aziraphale set his book down, and giggled when Crowley started to slither away, tickling a little on soft skin. 

It was a tricky thing, but Crowley managed to transform back into human right there in Aziraphale's lap, growing up and out and winding up in angel arms.

“Welcome back,” Aziraphale said warmly, and kissed him. “Better?”

“I was fine,” Crowley said. “Just wanted to be a snake.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale shifted him just a little, cradling him a bit more comfortably. “You've only been asleep two hours or so. I had supper without you, but there's a plate set aside if you'd like. I can heat it up for you in a jiffy.”

Crowley shook his head. “'m not hungry.” He checked his wards, carefully sniffed the air. Clean and calm and  _theirs_ . No one had tried to come near today, not even humans.

Aziraphale was quiet, and let him take his time, feeling the world out.

“Go back to reading,” Crowley said, making himself comfortable, head pillowed on Aziraphale's shoulder, fingers curling around the collar of his cardigan. It was one Crowley had found for him, had given him under some terrible pretence sometime in the seventies.

Well, that was an advantage of the now – he didn't even  _pretend_ when he gave Aziraphale presents anymore. No muttered explanations, or concocted lies or even a 'this-fell-off-the-back-of-a-lorry'. Now he just shoved a box at the angel and ran.[5]

“All right, my dear.” Aziraphale turned his attention back to his book, resting it in Crowley's lap. He could turn pages with one hand while the other cradled the back of Crowley's head, holding him still and close and loved, and so they passed the evening.

4 Crowley sort of hated Bridges, but he appreciated the gesture towards a recent century. At least Aziraphale also hated gloomy, endless organ pieces, so they were spared that.[return to text]

5Crowley was faintly aware that his technique might still leave something to be desired.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has more in common with Tiffany Aching than either of them realize.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! A quick trigger warning: the second half of this chapter features an OC passing away. The death is peaceful, at the end of a long life, and happens offscreen, but if you're feeling vulnerable about this, you won't lose any important plot or character beats by skipping it. You can stop reading at 'Crowley looked up from the orchid he was intimidating[...]'.

“Angel,” Crowley asked one morning over breakfast. “Personal question.”

“Mmm?” Aziraphale looked up from the paper, peering through his reading glasses. Crowley tried not to discorporate from the cuteness. It wasn't _fair_, it was early and Aziraphale's hair was even fluffier and wilder than usual and his glasses were so _dumb_, it wasn't like he needed them, he just really, really loved that affectation. Crowley did too, and properly hated himself for that.

“You know how you sent Hastur back to Hell?”

“Mmmhmm. Oh, my darling, you're not still worrying about that, are you?”

“No! No, uh, no more than usual.” Crowley played with a piece of toast. “Just that. Well. He's a Duke of Hell, and you sent him back without breaking a sweat.”

“Crowley, what's this about?” Aziraphale put his paper down and took his glasses off. Oh, bloody grand, this was going to be a Talk.

“Well. Er. I.” Crowley reduced the piece of toast to crumbs. “I don't. Know how to ask this.”

Azirphale nodded, patient as ever.

“It's. So it's not that I'm _worried_ about this. You need to know. Er.” Crowley switched to fidgeting with his napkin. “I. Well. He's a _Duke_ and _outranks_ me and could you send me to Hell?”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale looked genuinely shocked. “I would _never_! How can you – _never!”_

“I don't think you would! I'm just...curious. I want to know. Could you banish me to Hell?”

Aziraphale gave him an odd look. “What is this about? Surely you can't be afraid of that.”

Crowley shook his head, and stared down at his plate. “No, not really,” he mumbled. “I mean, no, I'm not. Never mind.”

There was a terrible silence.

“Oh. Oh, you must forgive me.” Aziraphale's voice was soft when he broke the quiet. “You just wanted to know, love. I beg your pardon, I've been very rude.”

Crowley blinked and looked up at him. Why was the angel begging  _his_ pardon? He was the one who'd ruined their lovely morning. Who had shocked and hurt the being he loved best.

Aziraphale was smiling at him, though it was small and tentative. “To answer your question, yes, I could. Not as easily as Hastur – you're rather...stickier, when it comes to Earth, than he is. But I could banish you to Hell if I wanted to.” He paused. “Which I never will.”

“Oh.” Crowley took a deep breath. “Thank you. I was curious.”

“I know.” Aziraphale's smile grew more sure. “That's why I love you. I do apologize, you...startled me.”

Crowley shrugged. “No, no, fair enough, it was an awful question.”

“No, it wasn't,” Aziraphale said. “Startling. Unexpected. But not awful. You only wanted to know, love.”

“That kind of thing usually gets me in trouble,” Crowley muttered.

“Well, not with _me_,” Aziraphale said, and went back to his paper. 

Crowley held onto the table, and didn't say anything, grateful when Aziraphale left him in peace for all the bloody  _feelings_ to wash over and through him. It was too much for any demon to bear, but he had to. And he couldn't turn into a snake; his Garden Club was meeting in a few hours, and he had to drop Aziraphale off at his knitting circle before then.

Aziraphale, bless him, was quiet and understanding, and Crowley was so grateful he even did the dishes.[5]

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said as they repaired to their bedroom. “May I give you a hug?”

Crowley gave him an odd look. “Zira, of course. You never have to ask for that.”

Aziraphale smiled bashfully. “I think I do, right after I behave so thoughtlessly.”

“What are you going on about now?” Crowley asked. Of course, he was going into Aziraphale's arms at the same time, snuggling happily against his angel. Aziraphale did give quite nice hugs, not that Crowley had _very_ many others to compare them to. But no one smelled quite like him, or wrapped their arms warmly around him and held him safe in the same way.

“You asked me a question, and I...didn't answer.”

“Well, you were pretty startled,” Crowley pointed out.

“That's no excuse!” Aziraphale sighed. “I'm no better than...Crowley, you can ask me anything. Anytime. I will always answer you, and I will never be angry with you for asking.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” Crowley worked out what this was all about, and tried to keep his heart from exploding. How could someone be a bit of a bastard but also too good for Heaven? How did Aziraphale _hold_ it all? “Thank you,” he muttered, holding Aziraphale back just as much as he was being held. 

Azirphale stroked his hair and kissed him, and finally let him go, but Crowley grabbed his hands, squeezing them in his own.

“I love you,” he said, and winked. “And if you didn't send me back in the fifth century, when I was the most miserable bastard alive, I figure I'm pretty good.”

“You! Cheek!” Aziraphale gave him a little swat, but also a little kiss, then pointedly returned to dressing himself for the day.

Crowley looked up from the orchid he was intimidating through a fallow season, when Aziraphale came downstairs. It was rainy and cold, a miserable autumn day, when usually they hunkered down and didn't leave the house and put a serious dent in their tea and cocoa stores. Crowley was even debating seeing if Aziraphale wanted to make an Effort later, to stave off boredom if nothing else. They made love rarely, but never out of dislike – more that there were so many other wonderful things to do together, and they tended to go for those instead.

“I have to go out for a few hours,” Aziraphale said quietly. He was holding the mobile that Crowley had finally convinced him to get. It was an old dumbphone, but Aziraphale tolerated it, and even better, actually _used_ it, so he wasn't going to argue.

“Everything all right, angel?” Crowley frowned and reached out, despite his potting-soil covered hands. Aziraphale didn't even hesitate, just put his hands in Crowley's and came over for a kiss.

“It's Moira. Beth called. We're, ah. Going to say our goodbyes. She's picking me up.”

Crowley pulled Aziraphale into his arms. “Oh, love. I'm sorry. Do you want a ride? Beth can leave her car here. I'll run her home after, no need for either of you to worry about anything else.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, darling, but thank you. We'll be all right. Been a long time coming and all.”

Moira was a member of Aziraphale's knitting circle – and pretty nearly everything else in town too, Crowley had learned as he met more and more of their little village. She'd been born just down the road from where he and Aziraphale lived, and lived most of her life in the same five square miles. The land here was in her bones, and everyone knew her and loved her. Crowley had only met her a few times, but Aziraphale had grown to know her a little better. Especially as age and illness meant she needed more and more help; there was a small army of friends and neighbours looking after her, and of course Aziraphale quickly joined their ranks.

“I love you,” Crowley said. He had more than an inkling of what Aziraphale was going there to do _other_ than say his goodbyes, and he also knew it didn't always come naturally to his angel who loved life and the world so much.

Aziraphale sighed deeply, and hugged Crowley tightly. “I love you too,” he mumbled into Crowley's shoulder. “I won't be long.”

“Take as long as you need, I've got no plans.” Crowley rubbed his back, and kissed his brow. “You call me if you need _anything_, all right? If any of you do.”

Aziraphale smiled at him. “You are really very wonderful, did you know?” He kissed Crowley again as his mobile chimed. “That's Beth, then. See you soon, darling.”

“Soon,” Crowley promised, and watched Aziraphale head for the door, trying not to fret. Human lives were very short; both of them knew that. The end of things was bittersweet and expected, but Aziraphale did worry so in the lead-up, and wear himself out making tea for everyone and arranging meals and things.

Crowley tried to go back to his plants, but he was in a mood now, restless and oddly lonely. He wanted to move, and try new things, and maybe accidentally on the side have something nice waiting for Aziraphale when he got home. Which is how he wound up in the kitchen, laptop set up on one counter, learning how to make bread.

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale said warmly, sitting by Moira's bed. He had, in the most natural way possible, eased everyone out out of the room to do the things that needed doing.

She smiled at him, and he would swear she rolled her eyes. He could pretty well  _hear_ her groaning 'Oh, not you  _too_ '. Not a woman who liked much fuss; Aziraphale had always rather admired that about her.

“Now, then,” he said, and took her hand, fragile bird-bones under thin skin, in both of his. “You mustn't be afraid of anything, dear lady. I'm here to help you along. Just rest, now. Your work is done, and it was such _good_ work, too. That's it – you're quite safe. Just a little longer, and you'll be able to rest,” he murmured as her smile smoothed out into something quite peaceful. Something ready.

It was late in the evening when Crowley heard the door open, and he did his best to casually saunter into the front room like he was going to anyway. He was probably not very successful, but so be it; Aziraphale was home and smiling and went right into his arms.

“How are you?” Crowley asked. “Let's get your coat off. Good heavens, Aziraphale, did you _walk_ in this downpour? You should have called me!”

“You're as bad as Beth,” Aziraphale scolded. “I wanted to walk, and think. I'm hardly going to catch cold after all.”

Crowley grumped and removed layers until he had Aziraphale out of his wettest clothes at least, and marched him straight up to their bedroom to get into further warm, dry layers, while Crowley attacked his hair with a towel.

“How was it?” he asked softly, when he was satisfied that Aziraphale was at least meeting minimum comfort standards for the household.

“As best as it could be, I think,” Aziraphale said. “Like the old days again; you could hardly see the bed when I got there, people were gathered around it so. A great deal of love. She was very old, and very loved.” He smiled, and leaned into Crowley's arms. “A good death, as good as any I've ever helped at. I miss her, Crowley.”

“Me too, angel,” Crowley said. “I think she must have been very lucky, to have you there to guide her along.”

“Oh, don't you start,” Aziraphale murmured, blushing. “I don't even – I just _helped_. Eased the way a little.”

“Did you see Azrael?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale shook his head.

“No, but I didn't expect to. Even if I wasn't on the outs with Heaven – he's not really the type of angel to stick around and chat, you know?”

Crowley nodded, and gave Aziraphale an extra squeeze. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “I, er. I made bread.” He wracked his brain. “And we have...eggs, I think. And butter. I can whip you up something if you want to eat in bed.”

“You are a dear,” Aziraphale said. “I'm _fine_, Crowley. Let's cook something together, eh?”

“Whatever you want,” Crowley promised him, as he always did. Aziraphale was sad, but that was all right; just because they both _knew_ they would outlive everyone didn't banish the sadness. But it was a fleeting thing, the way human lives were. Best to keep on, and take care of those left behind. There would be a stream of people in and out of their house for a few days, Crowley was quite sure, as people gathered for cups of tea and remembering, and 'well, she had a good run's. 

Perhaps he should make a second loaf of bread. Just in case.

5 Well, with a miracle. Some things were just unnecessary, and Crowley firmly placed dishwashing on that list. Still,  _he_ did the miracle, so that counted. More or less.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are so many Moira's in the world, and I'm so pleased to have been allowed to meet several of them.
> 
> (Azrael is shamelessly swiped from Reaper Man, and probably some other early PTerry Death books too. But he definitely shows up in that one.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note -- Crowley changes his gender presentation during the second half of this chapter, and his pronouns change as well.

“Seema! Hello dear! Oh, and this must be Ieuan.”

Crowley trailed behind Aziraphale as they made their way through the last farmer's market of the year, stocking up on their favourites against the winter. He knew several of the farmers, and most of the retired old men, but Aziraphale seemed to know  _everybody_ .

“You know my husband, Anthony, of course,” Aziraphale said smoothly, arm sliding around Crowley's waist. Sometimes his knees sort of gave way when Aziraphale called him 'husband' in public, so they had implemented this to help with that. Also, it meant Aziraphale got to touch Crowley, which was never a bad thing in his eyes.

(Crowley was forbidden from doing the reverse, until they could trust that Aziraphale would not absolutely embarrass them both plus anyone nearby with his response to Crowley referring to him as  _his_ husband.)

“It's so lovely to meet you,” Seema said, shaking Crowley's hand. “And yes, he's here on his first outing!” She smiled down at the pram, and Crowley definitely casually craned his head around to see a very, very tiny baby tucked under a wooly blanket against the chill of the air. 

“Oh,” he breathed. “Hello, Ieuan.”

Seema shared a grin with Aziraphale. “Would you like to hold him? He does get a bit fussy in his pram.”

Crowley looked at her to be sure this was a real offer, but she nodded kindly, and Aziraphale's hand was on his back, so he reached down and picked up the tiny mite of a human. They were so  _fragile_ at this age. At any age, really, but at this one they smelled a certain way, and had extra-soft heads, and they sort of folded up in on themselves if you weren't mindful.

He held Ieuan close, angled so he could look down into milky blue eyes and smile. “There now. No need to get bored. There's a whole lovely world out there full of interesting things for you.”

“He loves babies,” Aziraphale mouthed to Seema, although he probably could have yelled it and Crowley would have taken no notice. When was the last time he'd been able to hold a baby this young? Warlock, perhaps? Far too long.

Seema giggled, and she and Aziraphale completed their shopping, trailed by Crowley, who hardly looked up from the mite in his arms.

They finished up by a bench under some trees, bright sunlight filtering through onto the four of them. Ieuan had fallen asleep in Crowley's arms, to Seema's audible surprise.

“He won't even fall asleep on his dad! Just me!”

Crowley gave her another shy smile. “Oh, at this age, I'm sure it was just his naptime.”

“You're too modest,” Aziraphale said, slipping his arms around Crowley so that they both held the baby, who immediately blinked awake. “Ooops.”

Ieuan only blinked again and broke into a gummy grin. Aziraphale touched the tip of his button nose, a blessing disguised as a little caress, and Ieuan made a happy gurgle and wrapped his hand around the angel's fingertip.

“Crowley's very good with children,” Aziraphale explained to Seema.

“So I see.” She smiled at them both. “Any plans to have some of your own?”

“Ngk,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale laughed.

“Oh, no. We've got a few godsons, and that's enough,” he explained. “Always available if you need a babysitter, though.”

“I'll remember that,” she said, and Aziraphale was pretty sure they'd not seen the last of Ieuan. Seema only lived a few roads over, and her husband was often away for work.

Crowley gave the baby one last smile, and touched his little cheek with a fingertip. He couldn't do a blessing, exactly, not like Aziraphale. But a little protection, a little  _know you are wanted and loved always_ could go a long ways, as he handed Ieuan back to his mother.

“Sorry,” he said, looking at the ground. “Been awhile. They're so...tiny.”

“Yes,” Seema said gently. “They are.” There was no teasing in her voice, or distrust, or anything but kindness, and Crowley just about didn't jump when she squeezed his arm. “I should head off home now. It was wonderful seeing you both.”

“And you, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “Be well.”

Seema settled Ieuan a little more under the blanket and headed off, while Aziraphale gently pushed Crowley into sitting on the bench.

“You're so very good with children, my dear,” he said, slipping an arm around Crowley's shoulders.

“He was.” Crowley swallowed hard. “He was a very good baby.”

“Yes, my dear,” Aziraphale said, and even chanced a kiss to Crowley's temple. “I love you.”

Crowley smiled and leaned his head against Aziraphale's. “How many generations of babies have we seen?”

“Thousands, probably,” Aziraphale said softly. “Remember the first ones?”

Crowley nodded. That had ended...poorly, as so much had in those early days. When they were very young and the world was as new as it had ever been. At the very beginning of things, the first babies had been utterly perfect.

“Did you ever hold them? Cain and Abel?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shook his head. “Thought it best to avoid humans for a little bit,” he explained. “God was still watching, in those days, and all.”

Aziraphale nodded.

“Did you?” Crowley asked.

“Mmm. A few times,” Aziraphale admitted. He smiled, remembering. “They were lovely. The first babies in the world, they were utterly perfect.” He gave Crowley a little squeeze. “Like all babies. I'm sorry you didn't get to hold them. Might've done some good.”

Crowley shrugged. There had been other babies, and toddlers, and children. He smiled a little, thinking of the Armageddon't. There would be more generations for him and Aziraphale to fuss over and love.

“Come on, angel,” he said. “We ought to get everything home. Fancy a walk later?” It was a beautiful day, the breath of winter on the wind, and if they bundled up they could walk high over the hills and look down upon the earth. Maybe bring a flask of tea with them. Good things like that.

“Always,” Aziraphale said, and shared out his bags, now that Crowley's arms were free, and they headed back home together.

Aziraphale watched Crowley squirm against the doorway – for the eighteenth time that day, approximately – and figured out what was bothering her. “Darling, let your wings out you silly thing,” he said.

Crowley looked startled, laughed, and did so. “Oh, that's better,” she sighed, stretching out as fully as she could. The tip of one wing was within reach of Aziraphale, sat in his usual chair, while the other nearly reached the kitchen.

Aziraphale scolded her with a little 'tch' sound as a few black feathers drifted down. “You can let them stretch out here, my dear,” he said, going over and scooping them up. He kept a small stock of Crowley's feathers – the smaller ones – to use as bookmarks, and his store was getting low.

(He had noticed, after his last moult, that the pile of  _his_ feathers had vanished. Aziraphale had intended to burn them, and asked Crowley where they'd got to.

Crowley had blushed and mumbled something about keeping them, and Aziraphale had let him be. Which hadn't stopped his curiosity any – Crowley wasn't exactly going to be using them for bookmarks – but he thought this might be a thing that just had to come out over time. Even though he stayed curious as could be.)

Crowley grunted, and stretched all over, raising her arms over her head and cracking her neck with a happy sigh.

Aziraphale made another 'tch' sound, and ran a hand down one wing. “Do you want me to groom you, dearest? You're looking a little more shed-y than usual.” It had been a bit of a surprise to learn that demons lost their feathers almost continuously, instead of the regular moults angels had to deal with.

“Oooh, please?” Crowley turned around and grinned at him, and Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

“You can just _ask_, you know.”

“It's more fun when you offer,” Crowley said gleefully, as Aziraphale lead her up to their bedroom. Crowley liked to sprawl on her belly to get her wings worked over, probably because it made it easier to turn it all into a big, full-body massage.

Aziraphale was, obviously, fine with that, though he did like to fuss just to make a show.

Crowley took a little jump onto the bed and rolled over, her wings folding around her and then unfolding, a sweet little magic trick for Aziraphale. She'd changed her clothes while hidden, and was bare from the waist up. A long black silk skirt covered her legs, and a gold chain wrapped around her belly, the ends hanging down and ending in little bells that chimed when she moved.

“Yes, you're very beautiful,” Aziraphale assured her, pleased to see her in her favourite femme body – still rail-thin, not so very different from her usual, just now with small breasts and a hint of a waist and hips.

“Good,” Crowley said, moving her spine in a way that was probably not really very human. “I like to be beautiful for you.”

“You always are,” Aziraphale reminded her, settling on the bed and resting a hand on her belly. “Roll over, dearest. You're still all itchy, I can tell.”

Crowley grinned and wrapped her arms around Aziraphale's pillow, then rolled over onto her belly, her wings relaxing, spreading softly out from her back. The matte black of the feathers faded into the near-matte of her skirt, and Aziraphale admired the effect. Crowley was  _so_ good at being beautiful, and Aziraphale had chosen to be absolutely smug about the fact that this was all for him. No one else would ever see his love like this. He supposed the opposite was true, but he thought Crowley might enjoy showing him off more than keeping things to herself.

No matter – he had this, and it pleased him.

Aziraphale started by rubbing the space between Crowley's wings, the bit she'd been trying so hard to scratch all day. With wings folded away, this was where they felt things, and it usually needed a good scratch anyway.

It was easy to move his hands out from there, to stroke Crowley's wings, ensuring each feather was in its appointed place. He ruffled a few, and laughed in delight at the little puffs of black down that were released. “You have down!”

“'Course I do, angel. So do you,” Crowley said. They had sewed a pillow stuffed with Aziraphale's down, in fact, carefully collected as he moulted. It was kept in the linen closet and taken out only when one of them felt a bit poorly, as a treat.

“We'll add it to our pillow,” Aziraphale promised him, catching the weightless little poufs in his hands. They were so soft he couldn't, quite, feel them, and he carefully tucked them into his waistcoat pocket for safekeeping.

“Aw, don't do that,” Crowley said. “That's yours.”

“Well, you don't have enough to have a whole pillow yet, and I want to, so there.” Aziraphale kissed the back of her neck. “And I suppose I should have guessed, I've just never seen it before. Your down feathers, I mean.”

“Mmm.” Crowley sighed happily as Aziraphale kept up his rhythm. Ruffle, catch hold of any feather that was shed or ready to, and then set everything back into place with gentle fingertips. 

They fell silent as Aziraphale worked, a little lost in the regular actions. It felt good to do for Crowley, who did for him so much, and whose wings were so beautiful. Aziraphale's pile for his bookmarks grew taller, and he gave a little cry of joy when one of Crowley's long primaries drifted free.

“Oooh, good, I've got a matched set now!” he gloated. They had each shed a huge primary feather, several feet long, within days of each other, and Aziraphale had carefully matted and framed them. They had talked vaguely of displaying them together, perhaps in the front room, but never quite found the right spot.

Now there was a long black feather hanging on one wall of the library, and a long white feather hanging in the conservatory, and that had pleased them very much.

“No fair, I've got to wait a _century_ to get another one,” Crowley grumped, and Aziraphale laughed and ruffled her hair.

“Sometimes I lose a feather here and there, in between moults?” he offered. “Oh, don't you pout at me. You know the hours go slow, and the centuries race by.”

Crowley smiled, thinking of that. Centuries more with Aziraphale. Hundreds of moults to usher her angel through, torn between pity for a truly uncomfortable creature, and gritting his teeth because a cranky Aziraphale was truly one of the universe's great pains in the ass.

“D'you think we'll still be here in a century?” Crowley asked, as Aziraphale switched to his other wing.

“I'd like to be,” came his angel's steady answer, and a distinct tickling sensation foretold more downy feathers being carefully captured. What a silly angel he was, the way he kept Crowley's feathers and used them. 

Crowley had a box of Aziraphale's feathers tucked away, secret and only hers. Sometimes she just looked at them, admiring the undertones of gold and pink and blue. The little pile of feathers made the box smell like Aziraphale, and on those times when they were apart – never for more than a day or two, but  _still_ – it was a comfort to have something so physical right there.

“Might raise a few eyebrows, us not aging,” Crowley said. Friends complicated things, but she _liked_ that they fit in here. As much as they'd ever belong anywhere that wasn't each other.

“Times are changing, though,” Aziraphale said. “The old die, the young move away, and they don't move back.” He paused, and rested a hand on Crowley's back. “Maybe we go travel for a generation or two,” he conceded. “But together, of course. And always coming back here.”

“I like that,” Crowley said. She got itchy feet sometimes; the promise of travel – together – was a good one. When they grew a little bored here, and all their friends had gone, it might be time to see how the world had changed.

They had time, of course. Trickling slow, drawn out by the sleepy, soft feeling of Aziraphale's hands on her wings again. Of itchy feathers being freed, brushed away gently. Aziraphale never gave more than the lightest of tugs – touches, really – and if a feather didn't come, he put it neatly into place until it was ready. 

They talked of idle things, now and again, but mostly Crowley dozed and Aziraphale worked methodically, until he had pockets full of demonic down and a little pile of bookmarks – and of course his prize, the vast primary. He tidied all these things away while Crowley still dozed on the bed, then returned to sit beside her, simply stroking her back. Being there; being together.

Crowley turned her head and smiled, and nuzzled Aziraphale's hand when he gave her a little caress with the back of his fingers. 

“I love you, beautiful,” Aziraphale said, moving to stroke the soft hairs at the back of her neck. “Feel better?”

“Mmm_hmm_.” Crowley gave a happy little wriggle and rolled onto her side, head still on Aziraphale's pillow, and held her arms out. “I love you too, beautiful,” she teased. “Come down here and let me hold you?”

Of course, Aziraphale did, settling in Crowley's arms, curling close to that wiry, strong body he knew as well as his own now. Gender presentation never did affect much, even when Crowley went for lusher bodies. It was still  _Crowley_ , and that meant love.

She curled protectively over her angel, and spread a now-neat wing over them both, cutting off the rest of the room and making Aziraphale smile and reach up, petting the dark feathers.

“You're so lovely,” he murmured. “All those colours, in the black. And the black itself, deep and soft and welcoming as night. Thank you, my dear. That was a great honour.”

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley advised fondly. “You've got just as many colours in your wings – undertones and all.”

“'s different. And it's you, of course,” Aziraphale said, utterly unaffected by any of Crowley's words. He snuggled into his love's arms, head resting against her chest, and laid a little kiss on the warm skin there. “Love you.” Sure he'd just said it, but you could never say things like that enough.

“I love you too.” Crowley's voice was sleepy but her arms were strong and firm, and her wing hovered over them while they kissed the afternoon away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: This chapter has Aziraphale dealing with the effects of his abuse from Heaven and the other angels. See endnotes for more details.

Crowley was bored.

It was that dreadful hour that comes around late on Sunday afternoons. In theory, humans disliked that hour because it foretold the last bit of freedom before returning to school or work. In reality,  _everyone_ hated 4 pm on Sunday, especially if it happened in November.

Crowley hated Novembers, and Sundays, and Sunday afternoon in November, when the sun had barely bothered to rise all day and everything was somehow  _damp_ , just took the cake.

Hm, cake. Cake was good for bribes...

“_Angel_, I'm _bored_,” Crowley drawled at he roamed the house, looking for Aziraphale. Of course he knew exactly where Aziraphale was, but this killed three more minutes of the single worst hour of the week. 

The angel wasn't in the windowseat, nor anywhere else in the sitting room, nor the kitchen. The conservatory was gloomy and dark, and Crowley glared a little extra at the plants; there was an avocado tree that was trying his patience something awful.

Upstairs, Aziraphale wasn't bathing, nor was he in their bedroom. His library was in the back of the house, looking over the conservatory and beyond to the garden, and the fields past the apple trees.

Crowley frowned a little. The room was usually full of light; either sunlight (filtered softly through net curtains of course, wouldn't do to fade the books) or the warm yellow light Aziraphale had specifically picked out for the many lamps he'd scattered about the room. And it was..._cold?_

It was  _always_ warm in the library.

“Angel?” Crowley asked, staying in the doorway. Aziraphale was in his usual chair by the window, reading by the weak light. It was nearly dark; Crowley's own eyes ached in sympathy. 

“Mmm?” Aziraphale looked up and blinked. “Oh. I do beg your pardon. Have you been there long?”

“No,” Crowley said, leaning casually against the doorway. “Everything all right?”

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn't it be?” 

“What're you reading?” Crowley asked. Maybe it was a gloomy book.

“St. Catherine of Siena. Her...ecstasies.”

Crowley let out a low whistle. “Hot stuff for a chilly night.”

“Did you want anything, my dear?” Aziraphale's voice was even and clear, giving nothing away, which was how Crowley knew there was _something_ going on.

“Fancy a walk to the local? And dinner there?”

Aziraphale looked down at his book, and gave himself a little shake. It was not his usual happy wiggle, and Crowley grew more suspicious.

“Angel,” he asked softly. “What's wrong.”

“I told you, nothing. You worry too much, you old serpent.” Aziraphale smiled at him from the deep shadows that had only grown in even a few minutes. “A walk with you and a pub dinner sounds delightful.” He set his book aside and crossed the room.

The smile was real, at least, but Crowley remained unconvinced. Little matter; he'd get a good bottle of something both before and with dinner and get it out of his angel.

Perhaps he fluttered a little more than usual around Aziraphale on the way, grandly offering his arm after he locked up their cottage, and making sure Aziraphale was snug against his side. He even stole a kiss while they waited to cross a road, and had the great joy of watching his love go a bit pink.

Crowley got them a table right by the crackling fire, pulling out Aziraphale's chair for him, and then taking their orders to the barman, starting with a nice cocktail each. There were a few people they knew, also presumably escaping the gloomy night, but he got by with just a nod. Aziraphale, usually a bit of a friendly (if awkward) social butterfly, kept to himself.

They started with cocktails, but with dinner, Crowley took a gamble on a new red just in from California, and it paid off much more nicely than he thought New World wines usually did. Aziraphale smiled at his first taste, and Crowley made a mental note to order a case.

He might perhaps go overboard, just occasionally. And saw no problem with that at all, if anyone must know.

A bit of food perked Aziraphale up some more, exactly as Crowley hoped it would. They both ordered pudding, of course. And, of course, Crowley ate his ritual few bites of his chocolate lava cake, and insisted Aziraphale finish it for him.

“It's just the way you like it, sweetheart,” he said, pushing the plate across the table. “The custard's from scratch, even.”

“Ooooh, oh, well, if you're sure you've had enough,” Aziraphale said. “You do love homemade custard.”

“Promise.” Crowley got a good fork-ful going, and fed it to his angel, mentally apologizing to the other denizens of the pub and bringing up the shadows around their table a little more strongly. He loved Aziraphale more than anything, and lived to spoil him rotten, but he was also _well_ aware that they were frankly sick-making and no one deserved to be exposed to them.

Besides, the look on Aziraphale's face as he savoured the sweet was for him and him  _alone_ , damn it all.

They finished the last of their wine holding hands, Aziraphale's thumb sweeping over Crowley's knuckles. He worried for a moment that he might have been too obvious, a little too indulgent, and then realized he wasn't acting very differently than usual, at least for when he was in a particularly romantic mood. And with the low sky and the warm fire, he supposed it was snuggling season.

(Every season was snuggling season, when you had an Aziraphale.)

“So what brought on St. Catherine?” Crowley asked, after a sip of wine for courage. “You're usually not much of one for the old Catholics.”

Aziraphale shrugged, shoulders immediately slumping, and Crowley could have kicked himself. He ought to leave well enough alone. Except. That meant Aziraphale going through...something...alone. Which was unacceptable.

“Oh, you know. Just in the mood, I suppose. She did have quite a way with words.”

“And God herself,” Crowley muttered, politely ignoring a little kick this earned him. 'Kick' was a generous term anyway.

“Cheek,” Aziraphale said. He was quiet, then, longer than it took to drink his wine. “I wanted to know what it was like,” he said quietly. “To be beloved by God.”

“Oh,” Crowley said. This was...not what he had bargained for. “But you're not fallen. So...”

“So?” Aziraphale smiled at him. “Do you really think I feel, every day, beloved by Her?”

Crowley considered this. And thought of the saints he had known – and those who nearly had become saints, but for him.

“No,” he finally said. “No, I see what you mean. You don't have the...taste. The air doesn't feel like that, around you.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Precisely.”

“God can suck it,” Crowley said, not particularly caring if this annoyed Aziraphale.

It didn't, though – instead he sighed, and barely smiled, and took another drink of wine. “I love you, my dear. I thought I should mention it.”

“I know,” Crowley told him softly. “I love you too. More than you'll ever know.”

Aziraphale raised a hand to his mouth, bowing his head a moment, and his eyes shone suspiciously when he raised it again. “Can we continue this at home, Crowley? Please.”

“Of course, angel. Anything you like.” Crowley didn't quite down his wine, but he certainly upped his speed. Best to be ready to leave when Aziraphale wanted to go.

The angel also drank a little faster, he thought, and soon he was helping Aziraphale into his overcoat again, just for the chance to be a gentleman.

They were quiet on the walk home, and Crowley kept a hand at the small of Aziraphale's back. Matching their gaits was a bit of a task when they walked this closely, and it kept him from worrying quite as much as he might have, he thought, as they made their way through chilly streets. The lights from the houses gleamed off of the tarmac; it had rained a little when they were at dinner. Crowley hated the cold glint of light on the road, and he hurried them along.

Aziraphale started to build a fire as soon as they were inside, and Crowley turned on every light in their front room. This was not a time to be in shadows, he thought, pulling a warm blanket from the linen closet. Without asking, he wrapped it around Aziraphale the moment he sat down on the sofa.

“Oh, really now, this is a bit much my dear,” Aziraphale said, even as he snuggled into the blanket.

“I think not,” Crowley countered. “'sides, it's getting cold out.”

“Well, come here then,” Aziraphale said, holding his arms out. “You get colder than I do.”

Crowley went, but only because he wanted to be right there to hold Aziraphale and kiss him through whatever they were about to talk about.

“So tell me,” he asked gently. “Why you wanted to read about being beloved by God.”

Aziraphale made a face. “Ugh. I'm sorry. I'm very...I'm not usually like this.”

“I know. That's why I'm worried about you.” Crowley got his arms a little more firmly around Aziraphale, holding onto his solidity, and his softness. “You're beloved by so many. What's brought this on?”

Aziraphale bit his lip, and took a deep breath. “Crowley. Heaven – the other angels – they weren't very good to me, were they?”

Oh. Oh no. This was going to require...nuance and carefulness and thoughtful words, all things Crowley sort of hated to use around his angel. Aziraphale encouraged grand gestures and rude jokes and things without much subtlety, just by his very presence. “No, love,” he said. “They weren't.” They were abusive assholes who had spent millennia being deeply cruel, and then topped it off by trying to kill Aziraphale. Twice. At least Hell was  _honest_ about these things.

“Why not?” Aziraphale asked, as tears began to spill. “What did I do wrong, Crowley?”

Oh. He had thought – the first time they kissed – when he'd held Aziraphale and made him laugh – when Aziraphale loved him openly – Crowley had thought his heart would never break again. How wrong he was.

“_Nothing_,” he said in a low, ugly voice. “You didn't do a bloody thing wrong. You hear me? Nothing.”

“But I must have,” Aziraphale said. “Oh, I know they're...they're stupid and don't know anything. They got the Apocalypse wrong. I don't _want_ to belong there or anything foolish like that.” He sniffled, and pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. “But thousands of years? Crowley, I must have done something wrong, to be treated like that.”

“You didn't,” Crowley countered. “You're..._you_. You gave your flaming sword away. You _cared_. You care so much.” He pressed his face against Aziraphale's. “Maybe what you did was wrong by Heaven's standards, but that's their problem. Never yours.”

Another sad little sniffle. “You're right. I know you're right, of course. I just.”

Crowley waited. He was good at waiting, at letting Aziraphale work these things out. Perhaps this had just needed time to come to a head.

“I don't miss heaven. I certainly don't miss the angels.” Aziraphale sighed softly. “I was never sure. _You_ know. You had to put up with me worrying over every little thing, if I'd done the _right_ thing, if I was going to get caught, if I...if I was good.”

“I have never 'put up' with you,” Crowley said. “For the record.”

He felt Aziraphale smile, and lean a little more heavily on him. Good.

“I miss knowing I was on the good side,” he finally said. “I miss believing in Heaven. I miss knowing God loved me.”

“Oh, angel.” Crowley could argue with a lot, but not this. There was no arguing with longing, he _knew_ that the way he knew little else.

“She used to speak to me,” Aziraphale said. “In the beginning.”

“Oh?” Crowley started to rub Aziraphale's back, slow and steady. “Songs of love and praise, I suppose? Where she was going to send you next, her beautiful principality of the Eastern Gate?”

“Oh, er. No.” Aziraphale was quiet for a moment. “Gabriel was in charge of my assignments. Erm. She asked me where the flaming sword went to.”

“What did you tell Her?” Crowley asked, a little fascinated and also, incidentally, a little more angry at God. If _he_ were a deity, he'd definitely sing songs of praise to his angel and lay roses at his feet and other things like that. God had really missed a trick there, Crowley thought.

“Ah. Well. That I...mislaid it. That I was sure it was around somewhere.”

Crowley pulled back, mouth open a little, eyes wide, golden with their snake-pupil. “You told her  _what_ ?”

“That I lost the sword!” Aziraphale's eyes, already damp, spilled over anew. “No one ever asked again until Armageddon!”

“You _lied_?” Crowley hooted. “You lied to God's own face! After you'd protected the humans! Angel, Aziraphale, my heart, my dove, I love you so.” He pulled Aziraphale back into his arms, laughing and rocking them. “I love you, I love you, I love you more than any God ever could. I'm sure of it. You perfect, perfect creature.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale was shocked, perhaps even shocked into laughing. “Crowley, that's profane even for you!”

“I don't care.” Crowley got one arm under Aziraphale's legs and scooped him into his lap. “I love you. I'll scream it to the whole bloody world. I've got the best angel in creation, I do.” He cupped Aziraphale's face in one hand. “I love you,” he said again, voice true and steady. “Oh, my darling. You're the best of them, and they were so cruel to you, and you deserved none of it. Not one bit.”

Aziraphale smiled, just a little. “Now, I hardly think --”

“Shh!” Crowley laid the tip of his thumb over Aziraphale's lips. “I know what I'm about. You can trust me on this.” He smiled more kindly. “God _should_ love you. If she doesn't, that's her problem. Same with the angels. They should be kind to you. But they're not, 'cause they're a load of stupid bullies who don't know how to love anything, _really_ love it. I promise, Aziraphale. You never, ever did anything to deserve how you were treated.”

Aziraphale shook his head, and just curled a little more in Crowley's lap. “I. If you say so?” he said softly.

“Belief takes practice, eh?” Crowley said softly. “So we'll practice, until you know you deserve respect, and love, and kindness.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale hid his face in Crowley's neck, but he also didn't protest. 

“Just a little practice,” Crowley murmured, tilting his head so it rested on Aziraphale's curls. “You're most of the way there anyway. The hardest work is done, angel. And I love you so very much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale mourns the loss of his connection to Heaven, and worries that he did something to deserve how he was treated. He recognizes that he was treated abusively, but can't get over that it might be something in him that caused it.  
He is fiercely supported and loved by Crowley, who encourages him to mourn appropriately, but not blame himself at all. The resolution at the end of the chapter is sad, but hopeful.


	7. Chapter 7

Crowley kept a close eye on Aziraphale, but he did seem genuinely calmer and happier after their tearful night. He had the good common sense not to assure Crowley he was fine, but he smiled easily and laughed and teased Crowley back, and that was good enough.

Crowley, for his part, aimed to give Aziraphale a lot to practice  _with_ . He loved him openly, of course. His words stuck in his throat most of the time he tried to tell Aziraphale  _why_ , but then he lay down with his head on the angel's lap and they spent a whole afternoon like that, Aziraphale reading and gently petting Crowley's hair, and Crowley's head acting as a kind of ersatz bookstand as he dozed pleasantly.

When the sun started to set and Aziraphale turned on the little lamp next to him, Crowley rolled over and pressed his face into Aziraphale's tummy, humming happily to be so close to his squishy, comfy, beloved angel.

Aziraphale's chuckle rumbled through his body, and Crowley relaxed even further. It was so  _warm_ right here, he didn't even want to turn into a snake to bask better. Not at the moment, anyway.

“Sweetheart.” Aziraphale twined a long red curl around one finger, then let it drop free. “Did you have a good nap?”

“Didn't sleep,” Crowley told Aziraphale's belly. He was home, which meant no jacket or overcoat, which meant the soft, worn velvet of his waistcoat pressed against Crowley's face. “Daydreamed. Dozed. No sleeping.”

“I stand corrected.” Aziraphale's voice was mild, and full of good humour. “Shall I whip us up something for tea? Or do you want to go out?”

Crowley shook his head. “Ssssleepy,” he tried to explain, and paused. “Ssstay in?”

“I would love that, dearest,” Aziraphale assured him. “Are you going to go snakey?”

“Not yet.” Crowley sighed and dragged himself upright. He did this by essentially clawing his way up Aziraphale's front until he could rest his chin on the angel's shoulder. “Tell me if I annoy you.”

Aziraphale bit back a 'you could never annoy me like this'. Now here was something to be curious about. “Hypothetical,” he said instead. “Very hypothetical. What if I told you you _were_ annoying me?”

“Wouldn't change anything,” Crowley said truthfully. He turned his head and gave Aziraphale a cheeky grin. “'sides, I know I'm not _really_ annoying you. Not in the bad way.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “You know, it's a bit annoying when you know my boundaries better than I do.”

“I know. I love it.” Crowley smiled and looped his arms around Aziraphale's shoulders. “Ssssnuggles?”

_Oh_ . Oh, Aziraphale understood now. Crowley was...well, touch-starved didn't happen on the Principality Aziraphale's watch, perish the very  _thought_ please. But he did sometimes get demanding. In the cutest way possible. 

Aziraphale supposed that it was meant to be annoying, and it could be, in a kind of harmless cat-following-you-around way. Presumably that was where the demonic part came in, as Crowley still often loudly announced himself as  _very_ demonic thank you very much.

Mostly it was awfully endearing. It was nice to be needed, and very nice for Crowley to actually use his words and ask. And a snakey little hissed request was just – well it was  _sweet_ , and there was no other word for it.

“Let me get myself a cup of cocoa, darling, and we can go up to the bedroom,” he decided. Not needing to actually eat, the cocoa would do his corporation just fine in lieu of a proper supper. And they could get a proper snuggle in, in their own big bed.

Crowley nodded and trailed along behind Aziraphale to the kitchen, hooking two fingers onto the back of his trousers and letting Aziraphale essentially tow him along. “I'll make it for you, angel,” he said, as Aziraphale headed for their saucepans.

“Crowley! My dear, you don't have to--”

“I know,” Crowley said, pulling Aziraphale into a hug, the angel's back to his chest, his arms around Aziraphale's waist. “But it's only fair. I'm keeping you from supper.”

“You are doing no such thing.” Aziraphale turned and cupped Crowley's face in his hands, and looked him in the eye. He'd nearly entirely stopped wearing dark glasses when they were indoors, and Aziraphale was so grateful to see his sweetheart's face so much. 

He regarded Crowley for a moment, then kissed him, soft and sweet. “You may make me cocoa on one condition,” he finally said.

“It's not a big deal,” Crowley muttered.

“It is, a bit.” Aziraphale stroked his thumb over Crowley's cheekbone. “You may make me cocoa if you promise it's because you want to, and because you make it very well, and if you promise to have a little yourself. But not if it's because you feel guilty, or you feel you owe me something in return.”

Crowley considered the set conditions, and agreed to them. “I always want to,” he said, as Aziraphale finally released him.

“I know. But this isn't a trade, or anything you owe me as...as payment for my affections. Those come free,” he added unnecessarily. “Whenever you want. Or I want.”

“All right,” Crowley said, a little shy now.

“Looks like we both have to practice,” Aziraphale pointed out, and got himself a wider smile, when Crowley turned back from the refrigerator where he was fetching the milk.

He used real chocolate, of course, chopped fine, and added cinnamon and cardamom against the chilly night. Aziraphale got a mug that was rather more like a soup-bowl, and as promised, Crowley fixed himself a small cup – larger than an espresso cup, but not by much. Each was topped with a pretty little quenelle of whipped cream, too.

They took their treats up to the bedroom, where Aziraphale settled comfortably on the bed after first removing his slippers, and held out an arm for his beloved. Crowley went quickly, tucking himself against Aziraphale's warm bulk, one hand slipped inside his waistcoat collar to feel Aziraphale's heartbeat.

“Cocoa, dear,” Aziraphale reminded him, and held his cup for Crowley to sip a little from, because they liked to share.

“More cardamom next time,” Crowley decided, and smiled when Aziraphale sighed deeply.

“Just drink yours, please,” Aziraphale informed him, taking a long sip from his own mug. “Oh, that's scrumptious,” he praised, and Crowley reddened obligingly.

Following the letter of his orders (as was his wont), Crowley threw his little cup of cocoa back like a shot, pausing only long enough so he tasted like rich chocolate and spice.

Aziraphale obliged him with a kiss, and not some little peck, either. He balanced his cocoa in one hand and wrapped the other arm around Crowley's shoulders, pulling him close, urging him to twine his limbs around Aziraphale. They kissed and tasted good things in each others' mouths.

When Aziraphale kissed, he tried to kiss with all of him. Gentle, because Crowley had had so little gentleness in his life, pressing openmouthed kisses around his love's mouth before their lips came together. Then it was the wonder of sharing breath, of such an  _intimate_ act, and all the while his arm was around Crowley, thumb rubbing the hard joint of his shoulder. He made sure he gave off a little more heat than usual, and did not bother to miracle his clothes at all – he knew they were already soft and well-worn with love. 

When Crowley was – for the moment – thoroughly kissed, Aziraphale returned to his cocoa, of course still perfectly warm.

Crowley needed no nudging to rest his head on Aziraphale's shoulder, snuggled close, their legs entwined.

“Do you need skin to skin, love?” Aziraphale asked softly. “We can turn the heat up and get you lovely and cozy.” A brisk breeze whistled through the trees and under the eaves of their little cottage, adding to the general atmosphere of the evening. Bare branches were just traced out by weak moonlight outside their bedroom windows.

Crowley shook his head. “Maybe when we sleep,” he allowed. “This is good right now.” He petted the nap of Aziraphale's waistcoat, and touched where it was worn away to the substrate. “I like that,” he said, a little flippantly. “Your touch. Decades of it, wearing away the fabric.”

“Mmm.” Aziraphale smiled. “Like you to me. Centuries of you wearing away at my fears. The lies I told myself.”

“Stop that,” Crowley said. “You always were _you_. Always a bit of a bastard from the first, that's why I liked you.”

“Perhaps. But I don't think I would have stopped lying to myself, without you,” Aziraphale countered.

“Hmph,” Crowley said.

“Oh, hush, I promise I won't get all emotional on you,” Aziraphale assured him cheerfully. “Just. Well, it's true.” He kissed Crowley fondly. “I like to think I'm a good influence on you too, for what it's worth.”

“The Arrangement is totally different--” Crowley tried to argue.

“Oh, not _that_,” Aziraphale said. “That's just business, you silly thing. And I'm not talking about that old foolishness I used to have, about you becoming...un-fallen.” He shivered. “I wouldn't wish Heaven on you, I love you too much. No, I just. I hope.” He paused, and cleared his throat, and took a sip of cocoa for comfort. Here in this pool of golden light, here where they stood against the cold and dark just before the year turned, he could say these words. “Your friendship has meant a great deal to me. Has...upheld me. And your love, once I learned to see it. I can only hope that in turn, with all my faults, my friendship has done the same for you. And my love, of course,” he added softly. “For I love you so very, very much, Crowley.”

“_Angel_.” Crowley turned his head, burying his face in the soft of Aziraphale's waistcoat, holding him tight. He trembled a little, then eased, melting a little more into the angel's body.

“Yes,” he said finally, heavily, mostly speaking into Aziraphale's neck. “You have upheld me.” What a way to put it, especially for a demon. Aziraphale, who didn't pin him to Earth – Earth, and humans, did that quite nicely all by themselves – but who, perhaps, pinned him to_ himself_. He made _cocoa_, and gardened, and brought his angel flowers. And yes, caused trouble because the world needed a little shaking up, but also – was himself.

They both decided that was quite enough talking for the moment, thankfully, and in between sips, Aziraphale bestowed kisses, and caressed his demon boy when he was busy making his way through the actual soup bowl of cocoa. When he finally set the empty mug aside – joining the morning's coffee mug and an abandoned, long-cold cup of tea, oops – he could wrap his arms fully around Crowley and hug him close. Aziraphale rubbed his back, shucking his t-shirt up to caress glittering black scales, little reminders of Crowley's, well, Crowley-ness.

And there was kissing, of course – such kisses, giggling and teasing each other, Crowley taking Aziraphale's hand and holding his palm to his mouth, then his wrist, kissing up the crisp white sleeve until he found soft skin again. His angel's cute little double chin was well-loved, and finally Aziraphale's mouth, made to be kissed and adored.

Slowly, they undressed each other. There was no race to be naked, for there was nothing else to expect, other than the press of skin against skin. Aziraphale gathered Crowley's t-shirt higher, finally telling him to just put his arms up so he could pull it up and off and get his hands on that expanse of skin.

Aziraphale, of course, took a little more unwrapping. The much-loved waistcoat was finally unbuttoned and put aside, and his shirt to follow it. A woollen vest followed that.

“It's not that I'm warm-blooded,” Aziraphale said dryly, when Crowley eyed the antique underwear. “I just dress sensibly for the weather.”

Crowley made a face at him, and Aziraphale cackled happily.

Next, of course, he had to unpeel Crowley from his trousers, which was by turns frustrating and hilarious. “Really, my dear,” he said, after a certain amount of effort had only gotten them down a few inches.

Crowley smirked up at him. “C'mon, angel. It's like unwrapping, uh, well. Something delicious?”

Aziraphale fixed him with a Look. “It is not, actually.”

There was a bit more grunting, and a foot braced against the wall and some hearty yanking, but eventually Crowley was quite bare to the world, and giving a happy little wriggle about it.

Aziraphale's bottom half was considerably easier to sort out, which he was rather pleased to point out.

“Whatever,” Crowley said. “Skin time!” 

Aziraphale sat next to where Crowley was stretched out, and rested a hand on his belly. “Amorous skin time?” he asked idly.

“Meh. Unless you really want to?” Crowley offered politely.

“Oh, goodness no. Just checking with you.” Aziraphale smiled wider, and leaned down to kiss him, stroking said soft belly. “I love you. Get under the covers before you freeze, snake.”

Crowley grinned and scrambled under their duvet, eyes still glued to Aziraphale.

“Are you sure you don't want to make love?” Aziraphale asked, bemused as Crowley first tried to climb inside the duvet cover, thanks to not focusing on _anything_ he was doing.

“I'm sure,” Crowley said. “It's just – you're gorgeous. I like to look at you. You don't spend nearly enough time bare.”

“It's _November_,” Aziraphale pointed out, but he smiled too. And didn't climb right under the covers – he was warm enough for a bit. And, a little to his shame still, quite vain.

“You didn't go bare-assed in July, either.”

“We live in England. It rained all July.”

“Gosh you're in a mood tonight,” Crowley said, which got Aziraphale to smile a bit wider. “Here I'm just trying to compliment you, after I make you cocoa.”

“Oh, _hush_ already, you old serpent,” Aziraphale said. “I ought to leave you here and go settle downstairs with a book.”

“You wouldn't _dare_,” Crowley said. “Not when I'm here all tucked up in bed, chilly and alone.”

“Well, no, you're quite right I'm afraid,” Aziraphale admitted. “Are you cold, darling?” He touched the duvet and warmed it like an electric blanket.

“I wasn't before and now I'm really not. Thank you.” Crowley gave a little wriggle. “'s distinctly unfair. I can't see all of you and hold you at the same time.”

“Life is an unfair thing,” Aziraphale agreed, and looked down at himself, smiling a little deprecatingly. “You really love how I look?”

“With all of me,” Crowley said softly. “And not just because you are my beloved, either, although that's a great deal of it. You make a very handsome man, Aziraphale.”

“Oh goodness,” Aziraphale said, and blushed some more. “Er. Thank you.” He played with the edge of the duvet, and smiled at Crowley. “Budge over. I promised you skin time.”

Crowley held up the edge of the duvet and Aziraphale slipped in, giggling when he was immediately wrapped in loving demon, and gave a happy little wriggle. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“I'll sweetheart you.” Crowley tucked him close, arms loose around Aziraphale's torso, fingertips dancing between his shoulder blades. He kissed Aziraphale, and then kissed him again, putting his all into simply loving his angel. He wasn't as good at it as he'd like to be, sometimes, but, well. 

Practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, there will be snek!Crowley soon....


	8. Chapter 8

Aziraphale and Crowley were playing hide-and-seek.

Not on _purpose_, or at least it hadn't started that way, but an unseasonably warm late-autumn day had driven them outside, Aziraphale in his shirtsleeves and Crowley as a snake, the better to bask on some paving-stones and soak in the heat of the sun. He'd been going snakey for a few hours most days, though only to bask in the conservatory, or before the fire in Aziraphale's lap. It wasn't quite chilly enough that he grumped and went garter-snaked-sized to snooze away the hours in a friendly angelic pocket, but all in all, Aziraphale was quite used to having his best friend be a reptile for a bit.

It did make things delightfully quiet, he had to admit.

Of course, Crowley was still Crowley, which meant first some snoozing while Aziraphale tidied the dead winter flowers and things, and made the front garden look a bit more up to standard, and then, when the angel was kneeling just right, slithering over, rearing up, and giving his beloved's bottom a perfectly-timed boop with his nose.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale whipped around to see a huge black snake slithering away, hissing with laughter. “Oh, you bloody little...” He got up and twisted in a single smooth motion, and it occurred to Crowley that Aziraphale was, among other things, a warrior. He stopped laughing, and if a snake could say 'eep', he would have.

Instead, he dove for the underbrush by the side wall, trusting the rosebush thorns to protect him. Wiggling as fast as he could, he led Aziraphale on a merry chase, guessing correctly that the angel didn't want to scratch himself up on said thorns.

He could be herded, though, and Aziraphale did, chasing him down and around to the house where there was just a thin strip of earth, with climbing roses. These had smaller, finer thorns and offered little protection.

Crowley was just about to hit the front door and be home free (or at least open up a lot more hiding places), when Aziraphale dove for him, and caught him right behind the head. “Got you!”

“Oh my Lord!”

Both Aziraphale and Crowley looked over at the shriek from the pavement by their front gate.

“My God, what is _that_!” the woman said, pointing at Crowley. [6]

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “I just. Caught him? It! Of course I meant it. Er.”

“It's huge! We don't get snakes like that here!” Crowley _was_ nearly as long as Aziraphale was tall. He liked to be able to stretch out the whole length of the angel, and bury his nose in Aziraphale's hair, or sometimes his ear.

“Hm, well, climate change and all,” Aziraphale said, grasping at straws. And a snake. “No need to worry, dear lady, it's quite dead.”

Obediently, Crowley went limp and belly-up, and stuck his tongue out for good measure.

“Are you quite sure? I'm sure it's not a, well, it looks...poisonous?”

“Oh no,” Aziraphale said cheerfully, and gave Crowley a hearty shake to show how wobbly the 'dead' snake was, because if the love of his life was going to affectionately, regularly, tell him he was a bastard deep down, he thought it might be nice to be a bastard _less_ deep down. You know, from time to time. Also this was all Crowley's fault. “Quite dead, I assure you.” 

“Your—your bin's right there,” the woman said helpfully.

Aziraphale thought about this for a moment, but didn't want to see what his revenge for _that_ would look like. “Oh! No, no, I uh. I have a friend. At a university, yes, haha, who studies...snakes. I'll just pop this one in the freezer until he can come pick it up! Soon have all that skin and gooshy bits off, I can tell you!”

A  _little_ revenge would be okay.

“Well. All right. Ah. I'll just...be on my way then,” the woman said, eyeing Crowley closely.

He stuck his tongue out a little further.

Aziraphale waved her cheerfully on her way, then ducked into the house, closing the door  _quite _ firmly behind him.

Once inside, where the curtains were drawn, he poked Crowley. “ _You_ .”

Crowley arced up and around and fixed him with a dirty look, and a little hiss.

“Don't you hiss at me! She'd have been after you with the hoe if I hadn't thought quickly!”

Despite having no shoulders, Crowley definitely gave the  _impression_ of a shrug, and started slithering up Aziraphale's arm. He made sure to grow a little bigger and longer – not so much that the angel couldn't support his weight, of course, but definitely moving into Large Snake To Amuse And Frighten Late-Night Talk Show Host territory.

“Oh, what now?” Aziraphale asked, as Crowley finished ascending Mount Angel, and flicked his tongue out against Aziraphale's cheek. “Don't you kiss me.” He petted Crowley's head. “You did very good playing dead, mind.”

Crowley bobbled his head. Good, Aziraphale wasn't  _really_ grumpy. He started to descend again, landing in a pile of shining coils at Aziraphale's feet. He bent his head back dramatically, looked at the angel upside-down, and shot forward, slithering for the kitchen, and further hiding places, as fast as possible.

“Oh, don't you _dare_!” Aziraphale cried, running after him. “You can't shrink down, at least! Give me a fighting chance!”

Crowley only went a hair smaller – there were still plenty of nooks to hide in, even huge as he was. Indeed, it took almost half an hour for Aziraphale to find him where he'd flattened himself on  _top_ of the cupboards, finally climbing up on a chair to cross his arms and stare at Crowley.

“Found you,” he said, and gave the snake a little poke with an indignant forefinger. “I ought to tie a flannel around you while you're up here, the dust is remarkable.”

Crowley bonked his nose against Aziraphale's hand, and he sighed, of course, and snapped his fingers, disappearing the dust. “Yes, all right, I know neither of us like cleaning. But really, it's –oh,  _well_ . I didn't know snakes could sneeze.”

Crowley glared at him, with all his snakeyness, and Aziraphale snickered, and poked him right on his nose. “You're it,” he said cheerfully, and snapped, and blinked out of existence.

Crowley actually panicked a moment – Aziraphale wasn't one to use miracles like  _that_ , for all that they were free and Heaven and Hell were  _definitely_ leaving them alone – but no, of course. He was right there in the house; he wouldn't be cruel.

Easing his pounding heart – for even snakes have tender hearts – Crowley set off in search of his friend.

Not even having a direction to follow him in, he tasted the air, but of course Aziraphale suffused the house. His cologne was in his chair, and of course the smell of tea was  _everywhere_ , not to mention his own, unique scent. It filled the house, and Crowley opened his mouth a little to breathe it in more fully, surrounding himself with comfort and warm and, well – jammy little prick. Aziraphale was hiding, and he'd been tricksy about it, but it wouldn't do to let him think he was  _that_ clever.

There were some unique notes Crowley began to taste, as he made for the main hall. The green and dirt of outdoors; Aziraphale's clothes had caught the fresh winds of the strange, warm day, and the smell of winter-dead plants clung to his hands. These tiny threads drew Crowley upstairs, slithering over the worn-down stairs. Not the bathroom – but of course, there weren't really hiding places there. And not the library, a little to Crowley's surprise, but there, the bedroom, and there, the wardrobe. 

The one with the round handle.

That needed hands.

Crowley  _liked_ being a snake in winter, and he liked playing with Aziraphale like this, and he wasn't going to give it up just yet for something as silly as thumbs. Surely he could just get up and coil around the small handle...

After the third  _whump_ that sounded distinctly like a snake falling several feet to the floor and landing on his very tiny snakey head, Aziraphale opened the door of the closet, because some things were too pathetic.

“Found me,” he said dryly, looking down at Crowley.

“Hiss,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale refused to take pity. 

“You can _turn back into a human_,” he pointed out, and sighed. “Cup of tea, dear? Oh, all right, you can ride along,” he said, grumping because it was expected of him, and holding out a hand so Crowley could more easily slither up onto his shoulders, because he liked the feel of that. As big and long as he was – a good ten feet, Aziraphale guessed, and as thick around as his thigh, at his widest bits – it was a bit more like being wrapped up in a snake from waist to neck.

“Erf. Can you shrink down just a touch?” Aziraphale requested, petting what he could reach, and genuinely a little afraid to move. Crowely was _heavy_. “Just until we settle in, then you can get as big as you want.”

Crowley obliged, shrinking down to fit neatly over Aziraphale's shoulders.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” Azirapahle kissed the top of his little head, and, now that he wouldn't actually tip over, headed for their kitchen.

Tea in hand and curtains  _very_ firmly drawn, Aziraphale settled in their sitting room. Or intended to, anyway – he put his tea down in preparation for getting comfortable on his chair. It was warm enough they didn't even need a fire yet, though winter weather was due to return soon, and kindling and fat oak logs awaited that first breath of chill.

Crowley, seemingly, had other ideas, as he slithered down and grew to truly magnificent size, transforming into the massive snake Aziraphale had first met in Eden.

“Oh, my darling.” He held out his hand and Crowley settled his head there, politely darting his tongue out to smell Aziraphale's wrist. It spoke of tea and old cotton and wonderful soft things, and a little of the relative wild of their front garden.

“How handsome you are,” Aziraphale praised. “Oh, sweetheart, this takes me back. Life back then was so...” He paused. “Simple?” he tried.

Crowley actually opened his mouth and  _laughed_ . Silently, but still.

“Oh, all right, I was a neurotic mess then, too,” Aziraphale grumped, but he smiled while he said it, so Crowley permitted it. He uncoiled a bit, winding around Aziraphale's leg, and gazed up at him.

“All right you old serpent, I know what you want. Let me get my tea at least. You can have a bit if you like,” he offered, retrieving his mug and settling down on some cushions they kept by the fireplace for more or less just this occasion.

Crowley coiled himself carefully under and around Aziraphale until the angel was entirely held by snake, and Crowley's head rested right next to his.

“You're so very lovely,” Aziraphale assured him, petting jewelled scales and admiring Crowley's red belly. “Tea?” He held out his cup and Crowley took a polite sip, leaving the rest to the angel.

Aziraphale gave a contented little wiggle and settled down with his tea and his snake and the book he kept in the old coal scuttle that held newspaper and kindling.[7] And so they passed a contented afternoon, angel held in the loving coils of his mortal enemy.

Crowley awoke so late it was nearly early, and wasn't sure what had done it. He was usually a dedicated sleeper-through-the-night, especially out here in the quite countryside. But tonight, something had awoken him.

He listened carefully, but the house was all sleepy silence. He was alone in bed, but that wasn't  _terribly_ unusual. Aziraphale often only slept a few hours, if he slept at all, and would grow bored and slip out of bed. He was always very careful to tuck Crowley in warmly, which the demon thought very silly, and generally remembered to come back for cuddles when Crowley woke up, which he found unspeakably wonderful.

Perhaps he'd gone to read in his library; Crowley would just quickly check on him, make sure all was well, and go back to sleep.

The library was dark and still, though, and Crowley made his way through the house, listening for anything that might be out of place, practically  _smelling_ the air, although he'd gone human for dinner and decided to stay that way, at least until it got too cold again.

He found Aziraphale in the conservatory, and his breath caught at what he saw.

The angel knelt in the middle of the floor, looking up. His wings were out, but folded, and his dressing-gown was washed out pale and eerie in the moonlight. For everything was quite dark, and it was only the full moon that lit Aziraphale. His skin was night-pale, white and marbled-looking, and Crowley shivered. The stone floor was bitter under his feet – how long had Aziraphale been kneeling here? And  _why_ ?

He walked closer, moving carefully and as softly as he could until he could crouch down by his angel, and that's when he saw the tear-tracks on Aziraphale's face. Those beautiful, changeable eyes glanced over at him, but Aziraphale didn't try to hide his crying, or pull away, or do  _anything_ .

“Sweetheart,” Crowley breathed, and touched Aziraphale's shoulder. “Oh, you're _freezing_. It's so cold in here at night, dearest. Come up to bed with me.”

Aziraphale didn't move, though, and Crowley wasn't going to force him. Never, ever, ever. That was the kind of thing angels did, force you into things, and Crowley was no angel.

“Poor love,” he murmured instead, and brushed a fresh tear from Aziraphale's cheek. 

“I miss it,” Aziraphale said, and looked up at the stars. “How terrible is that? How terrible am _I_? I miss that awful place.”

“You're not terrible,” Crowley said. “Not even a little bit.” He touched Aziraphale's back, starting to stroke gently between his wings. “It's very beautiful, isn't it? The night sky.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I just stepped in here for a moment, to admire it,” he whispered. “And then, I.” He looked down, and tears fell faster. “I'm sorry.”

“Shhh, now, none of that. You've nothing to be sorry for.” Crowley scritched right where he knew it always itched when Aziraphale had his wings out. “It's worth admiring.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I always liked it,” he said, “when I was sent to the stars. It was cold and clear and quiet. And beautiful.”

Crowley nodded. And probably blissfully free of abusive angels, he didn't add.

“Do you remember when the stars were being made?” Aziraphale asked, hardly above a whisper, as they looked up into the brilliant night together.

“A little,” Crowley said. “Bits and pieces. Do you?”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale said. “All of it. Shall I tell you about it?”

Crowley probed this, taking his time to think this one out. This was a real question, and deserved a careful answer. Would it make him miss Heaven too? Probably not. Would it hurt, to hear the things taken from him?

That, he wasn't so sure of. If anyone else had told him, for that matter if Aziraphale had told him even a few years ago, there would have been a fight and Crowley would have resented him. But now?

“I think so,” he said cautiously. “I think I'd like to hear that. Only – Aziraphale, my feet are cold.”

This, more than anything, seemed to snap his angel out of his spell, and Aziraphale looked down at Crowley's bare toes on the stone floor, his expression transforming to one of horror.

“Crowley! What are you doing here dressed in hardly anything! You'll freeze! Oh, my dear.” He looked stricken. “I'm...this is all my fault.”

“It really isn't,” Crowley said, and put his hands under Aziraphale's elbows. “Come on, I don't know how long you've been here, but you're pretty frozen yourself.”

“Oh, bother _me_\--”

“I will _not_,” Crowley snapped. “You're my beloved, and you're sad and cold and you were treated like trash by beings who should have loved you and you were so, _so_ strong and so brave you got free, so thank you I _will_ pay attention to you!”

Aziraphale was actually shocked into silence, a trick Crowley had managed only rarely in the past.

“Oh, love.” Crowley's mind raced, found the words he needed, for all that he was so bad at them. “It's all right. To be sad. Uh.” He swallowed. “Will you tell me about the stars?”

Aziraphale nodded slowly. “If. If it doesn't hurt us. Either of us. To remember.” He sighed, and looked down. “You think I'm strong and brave, and I'm really not.”

“I disagree,” Crowley said. “But that's another for your list of things to practice. C'mon, angel. Bed. We'll both feel better.” He took Aziraphale's hand, but let the angel take the lead, not moving until he'd begun to make his way back to their bedroom.

Crowley let out a breath of relief when it was warm(er) wood beneath his feet, then their carpets. He could thaw out a little before getting into bed.

Aziraphale was cold to the touch, which was slightly terrifying, but at his first shiver, he made a face, and heat flooded the room, the blankets almost glowing with the miracle to make them nice and toasty. Two water bottles, in lovely knitted covers, appeared too.

“Thanks,” Crowley said, and meant it, tucking his by his feet. Aziraphale pushed the other into his arms, and then when Crowley protested, took Crowley himself into an embrace.

“See?” he said. “It'll warm me too.”

“I'll warm you,” Crowley grumped.

“That's literally the plan?” Aziraphale smiled, and kissed his cheek. “I love you. Thank you for coming to get me.”

“Always,” Crowley said, and kissed him back, _properly _thank you very much. “Now tell me about setting the stars in the sky. Please.”

So Aziraphale did.

6 To be entirely fair, this sometimes happened in human form too, which Aziraphale often delighted in reminding him about.[return to text]

7As all great readers through history have learned to do, Aziraphale left emergency books throughout the house, should he ever find himself in a situation where he was very comfortable, but also required reading material. Crowley had wondered about the reasoning behind some of these – when on earth would Aziraphale be in the crawl-space under their house, and why, once there, would he want to read an early publication collecting Van Leeuwenhoek's letters to the Royal Society? – but in the way of all good people puzzled by their beloveds, he tried not to judge.[return to text]


	9. Chapter 9

The chill had left Aziraphale's skin quickly, to Crowley's immense relief. It had been like touching a marble statue – there was nothing more different than his soft, always-warm angel, and it had unsettled him.

Aziraphale spent a good long time just holding him until they were both a little more settled. A quick dive under the blankets and a brisk rub for very cold snakey feet, and Crowley was warm and peaceful again, as much as he ever was. Still hugging the water bottle – it was all creams and whites and pale blues, he noticed, and it smelled like a pine forest somehow – he curled up so he and Aziraphale faced one another,their knees touching under the blankets but otherwise apart, gazing at one another.

Aziraphale smiled at him, reaching out to touch his lips with a fingertip, tracing the lines of his face up to his eyes. He touched the crows-feet there, feather-soft, and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Crowley's ear. “I imagine you made the most beautiful stars,” he said, and grinned, sudden and lovely. A little flourish, straight from his magic act, and a spray of little lights, blue-white and red and yellow, danced in the air between them.

“I don't remember,” Crowley said. “Or, rather. I know I made stars, but then everyone did.”

“Mmm. I was never very good at it,” Aziraphale admitted, touching Crowley's hair and leaving little stars gleaming there.

“You're good at it now.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I was made to be a warrior,” he said.

“Eurgh.”

“Eurgh,” he agreed.

“Give yourself stars in your hair, please,” Crowley requested. “I don't think I can. I don't want to chance it anyway. Be a bit unromantic, lighting you on fire.”

“Now, now, don't yuck someone's yum,” Aziraphale teased.

“Who taught you _that_?” Crowley squawked, honestly astonished. Not that Aziraphale knew of the existence of kinks – _that_ wasn't anything new – but this was well above Intro to Humans.

“Just something I overheard in a cafe,” Aziraphale said modestly. But he also tossed a scatter of lights in amongst his curls, which pleased Crowley.

(Aziraphale had flatly refused to grow his hair out, but it was a little longer than usual. Long enough for actual curls to appear, at least, and Crowley was delighted beyond words, even if Aziraphale's hair – at least when he wore a male body – had never and would never touch his collar, no matter what the demon begged or promised.)

“So, yes,” Aziraphale said. “I'm not very good at making stars. But I did, a little.” He smiled suddenly. “I _have_, recently. When Michael and I fought.”

“Right,” Crowley said, and shivered. When she tried to tear Aziraphale's throat out, and their blood birthed galaxies. “That's different.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale rested his hand on Crowley's elbow, the two of them so close. “This is a story from when the world was new. And you made stars.” He smiled, and leaned in for a soft kiss. “We made them one by one, in those days. Oh, some of the best angels could make a few at a time, I guess, but most of us could only manage one. You held your hands like so --”

Here, he cupped his hands, but he did so against Crowley's chest, right over his heart, cradling the space.

“You dreamed, then, of light against the darkness. Of color and heat and chemistry. Of a point of light, immense and burning, a shout against the emptiness of space.” Aziraphale breathed out, and red point of light appeared, glowing softly. “A promise.”

Crowley watched, entranced. If Aziraphale wasn't very good at making stars, what had the real masters of the art been like?

“You nurtured it, then. A little, or a long time, but you stood and held that light--”

“I remember that!” Crowley didn't mean to interrupt the story, but the flash of cold against his back, the heat of a star in his hands, it came back, just for an instant. “I remember! There was a...a challenge! Not every star made it. You had to be strong. It wasn't evil, it was...” He laughed. “It was _physics_! A world that wanted to be cold--”

“But we made it warm!” Aziraphale laughed, and the little red light vanished as he pulled Crowley into his arms, the two of them giggling together.

“We made it warm, and welcoming. We made stars,” Crowley said, eyes shining. “Before it all began, we made the universe.”

“We won against the dark,” Aziraphale agreed, and kissed his brow. “Do you remember – then, when the star still burned, you let it go.”

Crowley shook his head, then paused, and frowned. “I don't know. Maybe. I...it gets all mixed up.”

Aziraphale nodded, and stroked his face. “It never hurt to let it go,” he said softly. “It never hurt me, anyway. You and your tender heart, maybe it did.”

“Oh, shove it,” Crowley muttered.

Aziraphale smiled slowly. “No, no. I remember angels like that. You loved the thing you'd made and sheltered--”

“I'd go and find them, after,” Crowley said. “Just to check. We weren't supposed to, probably. But I did.”

“Of course you did,” Aziraphale said. “I could have learned a lot from you, in those days.” A little dapple of lights across Crowley's skin now, like freckles, the stars he'd once made.

“Shut up,” Crowley drawled. “Tell me more.”

“It's not that bad, is it?” Aziraphale asked. “Remembering.”

“Not this,” Crowley said. “Stars. Focus, angel.”

Aziraphale very maturely stuck his tongue out. “Right, where was I? We made the stars, and released them into the firmament, and God was happy with what we made.” He smiled, remembering. “Over and over, an infinity of stars to light the dark world. We never meant to make pictures, that took the imagination of humans. But I did like making patterns. Neat, organized, beautiful patterns. I wasn't allowed to make many, of course.”

Crowley nodded, reaching up to pet Aziraphale, and found he could get the little lights to stick to his fingertips. He moved some down, placing them at the corners of Aziraphale's eyes.

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale asked, deeply amused. This made his crows-feet deeper, and Crowley celebrated that he'd had so much joy in his existence, it had scribed into his body.

“You'll see. Make me a few more, love? Thank you.” More and more stars on his eyes, the gentlest touch on paper-thin eyelids. And the rest to sprinkle among white-blond curls, replacing the ones he'd bothered. The little stars prickled his fingertips, like tiny bits of ice, but left no marks, so Crowley was content he wasn't playing with anything too holy.

“There,” he said, and Aziraphale smiled, and leaned in for a kiss.

“So that was how we made the stars, love, all those ages ago,” he said. “And how you loved them so.”

“You loved it too,” Crowley said. “I can tell.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I did. But I told you, I wasn't very good at it. I was supposed to train to fight. I wasn't very good at that either,” he said ruefully.

“No, I guess you weren't,” Crowley said. “Good thing you're so good at being you.”

“That's a tautology!”

“Dun care. It's true.” Crowley smiled at him. “You're good at being a bookseller – well, or not – and caring about humans, and putting stars in my hair. Why would you want to be anything else?”

“Well, limiting the insults everyone lobbed at me would have been nice,” Aziraphale said dryly, but he smiled, urging Crowley not to take him too seriously. It didn't work wonderfully.

“In no way your fault,” Crowley said. “It was never on you, sweetheart. Ever.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said. “Or – I'm starting to know.”

The sun was rising by now, lighting the world up from back and white to grey, and colours would come soon, such as they were in England in late November.

Creating his own light against the gloom, Crowley turned on a bedside lamp and grinned. “Go look at yourself in the mirror, angel. Some of my finest work.”

Aziraphale laughed and sat up, blankets tumbling around him. “You have to come with me, too. I got a little, er. Creative?”

Crowley grinned and wriggled out from under the covers, deciding he could chance a quick run to their bedroom mirror, if he had his angel with him. Hand in hand, they crossed the room and checked each others' handiwork, arms around each others' waists.

“Oh, lovely,” Crowley approved, moving so his hair gleamed in the low, golden light, and the stars there and across his cheeks twinkled. “You're more of an artist than you give yourself credit for, Aziraphale.”

“Oh, go on.” Aziraphale leaned in and turned his face from side to side, lowering his eyelids and smiling. “You've made me beautiful.”

“Nah, I just gilded a lily,” Crowley said cheerfully. “Are we expecting anyone? I want to stay like this today.” He looked out the window. “Eurgh, it's not even _raining_ properly, it's just nasty and cold. Never mind, we are definitely not at home to visitors.”

Aziraphale grinned, and kissed his cheek. “Agreed. Go back to bed if you like, sweet, I can bring you coffee.”

Crowley shrugged. “I'll come with you.” He shamelessly stole Aziraphale's dressing gown, deciding that he needed it more, being a cold-blooded demon. It wasn't quite as good as if Aziraphale had been wearing it, but it would do.

Aziraphale, not even trying to hide a smile, stole one of Crowley's dressing gowns in retaliation.[8]And the matching slippers.[9]

Coffee and a hearty breakfast set them up for the day, after which Crowley declared that the only way he was going to survive a gloomy November day in human form was if he was in bed, after which he dramatically swanned out of the kitchen, a snap taking care of the dishes.

Aziraphale smiled fondly after him, admiring the way his dressing gown wrapped around Crowley's slim figure. It did flatter him so, and he rather fancied that Crowley's dressing gown flattered _him_. It was certainly very pretty, and rather fun to have all that marabou. He didn't even mind the heels so much; they were low and chunky, and the bright red feathers that stretched across his instep were rather striking against his pale skin.

Quite pleased with them both, Aziraphale went out to read the morning papers in the conservatory, determined to ignore the last time he'd wound up in there. It was warm and humid in daylight, even without sunlight (though perhaps with a little miraculous assistance for the heating system), and the air smelt of damp earth and growing things. Crowley didn't tend much towards flowers, other than some very high-strung orchids, but there was a kind of general perfume anyway, just from all the life.

It was soothing, and Aziraphale put aside the cold and the tears of the night before, determined to enjoy himself. And, with cup of coffee at his elbow and the Times crossword in hand, he absolutely did.

A few hours of peace reigned, until they both got a bit bored, and reconvened in the bedroom. Aziraphale had eventually gotten dressed for the day in warm wool and a sensible cardigan, swapping the fancy slippers for his more usual lambskin ones.

Crowley, never really one to be unpredictable, lolled on the bed in lace and silk shorts and a matching chemise, Aziraphale's dressing gown his only attempt at keeping even a bit warm.

“You don't mind if I wear it today, do you?” Crowley asked, stretching out and shamelessly posing.

“Of course not, darling.” Aziraphale stroked a bit of bright embroidery, planting a little miracle to make sure that Crowley would stay nice and warm. (And, honestly, not whiny.) “It's beautiful on you.”

“You have excellent taste,” Crowley told him, wiggling his eyebrows.

“You're not talking about the dressing gown, are you,” Aziraphale said dryly.

“Nope!”

This got him to laugh and stretch out beside Crowley, one hand stroking his belly and reaching for a lazy kiss.

“You're right,” he said warmly. “I do. About you, at least.”

“Aw.” Crowley blushed. “Stop.”

“Nope,” Aziraphale parroted brightly, and laughed, and kissed him again. “Crowley, may I ask you something?”

“Of course. Always. You know that.”

“I know.” Azraphale squirmed a little closer. “When did you stop trusting Hell? I mean...when did you know it was all a lie?” He held his breath a little, sure that the answer would be something clever like 'right away' or 'it was the co-workers that gave it away'. Crowley...didn't get fooled by his bosses, the way Aziraphale did.

“Oh, good one.” Crowley stretched his arm up so he could play a little with Aziraphale's hair, purposely mussing his curls, not that they needed too much help. There was one in particular that seemed dedicated to sticking straight up, and Crowley liked to encourage it along.

“After Eden,” he said. “No wait. After Gethsemane, I think. Not much after. Why?”

“That late?” Aziraphale asked, startled. “But you're so clever! And--”

Crowley held a finger to his lips. “Don't you dare finish that sentence. How smart you are – and you are very, _very_ smart, darling – has nothing to do with this.” He shrugged. “Yes, that late. I think it helped that Hell was always very honest. We were the bad guys, of course everything would be utter shit. But I didn't expect them to not _care_.” He was thoughtful a moment. “Yes, I think it was Gethsemane. I got sent to tempt Him, of course, you know that. But I don't think I was meant to succeed. Pretty sure I wasn't. And I started to notice things. Hell's stupid and has no imagination, but there were so many _easier_ ways to win souls, and it was supposed to be a numbers game, you know? We get more than Heaven, we win.” He shrugged. “Tempting a single monk, while Heaven's lot were getting kings to baptize their entire household, from gesiths on down? What was _that_ supposed to accomplish?”

“Good was _supposed_ to win out,” Aziraphale breathed, then caught himself. “No, forgive me. _No one_ was supposed to win out, until the big one. Balance.”

“Balance,” Crowley agreed. “It was easy to see on my side. They didn't care, you know I made up all my paperwork. And I knew Heaven was bullshit, so.” He shrugged. “Jesus was nice. I'm glad I got to show him a few things, at least.”

“I'm glad I was there,” Aziraphale said softly. “When he died. I know I was useless – no, hush, I _was_. But I...witnessed. At least one person in Heaven wept for him.”

“Only one, I think. You and your soft, perfect heart,” Crowley agreed.

“Did it hurt? When you stopped believing Lucifer?”

“Oh yes. Of course. Not as bad as being cast out, but yes.” Crowley touched Aziraphale's chest. “Your heart still hurts?”

“A little. Sometimes. Well, you saw me last night.” Aziraphale said.

Crowley nodded, and bent his head to kiss Aziraphale's shoulder. “I love you.”

“I know. I know that better than anything.” Aziraphale sighed. “I wish I could just..._know_. Everything you tell me is right, that we're our own side and probably always were. That how I was treated wasn't right. That...that I didn't do anything to deserve it, no matter how soft and bookish and annoying I am.”

Crowley made a little noise of warning.

“I _am_,” Aziraphale pointed out. “But I hate this. Sometimes I know that's all true. And sometimes I don't. Or I remember something, and I know it was my fault. But it wasn't. And. And I'm sad. I don't want to miss them. I don't _want_ to miss Heaven.”

“But you do.” Crowley sighed. “I don't miss Hell at all, I'm sorry. Maybe I miss the honesty, but that's it.” He kissed Aziraphale's forehead. “What do you miss about it, angel?”

Aziraphale went quiet, thinking, and Crowley kept up the soft little touches, making sure his angel was grounded and comforted and knew he was loved.

“I don't know,” he finally said, with some surprise. “It was cold and horrible, and full of horrible people. Er.” He was quiet a little longer. “I miss the promise of it,” he finally said. “That we were good. That _I_ might not have been good, but _we_ were. And now it's all topsy-turvy.”

Crowley nodded. “You were always very...sure,” he said carefully. “And now you're not. You can't be.”

“Of course I'm sure,” Aziraphale said, sounding surprised.

“But--”

“Oh, not about Heaven, don't be ridiculous. But I'm quite sure about you. And about me. And about our side.” Aziraphale's voice was prim and proper, the way he used to talk about Heaven. “I'm quite sure that I love you more than I could ever put into the words, or show you, and that I won't ever stop. And I'm absolutely certain you love me. And that will see me through.”

Crowley opened his mouth, and found he had nothing to say.

“I never knew it was hard for you, too,” Aziraphale said. “I'm so proud you're my partner. Because if you could do it, and you believe _I_ can stop being...tied down and frightened and sad. I think I can too. Someday.”

“Arrk,” Crowley managed, and oh good _Satan_, were those tears in his eyes? _Why_? Just because the love of his life _believed_ in him and thought he was brave and admired him and believed in himself because Crowley believed in him, that was absolutely no reason to go over all...cry-y.

But because personal growth wasn't just for angels, Crowley did _not_ turn into a snake. He hid his face in Aziraphale's shoulder and held onto him tightly, like the demon he was. And was very proud.

Once he'd had a good cry, anyway.

8It certainly wasn't for warmth. Translucent silk and marabou trim, no matter how many yards of it there are, aren't really known for their insulating properties.[return to text]

9 Again, marabou and heels, not known for keeping toes warm against morning chill. Spare a thought, please, for their radiators.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the inspiration for the dressing gown Aziraphale borrows from Crowley, by the way: [Cassandra Dressing Gown](https://www.thelingerieaddict.com/2017/07/lingerie-review-boudoir-by-dlish-cassandra-dressing-gown.html)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should note, before I begin, that I haven't spent very much time around very small babies. And also, I find them terrifying. So please forgive me since this is probably a deeply unrealistic portrayal of a newborn, and I plead demonic/angelic effects upon the child.

Seema had dropped Ieuan off with them just after breakfast, taking them up on their offer to mind him anytime. She needed to go a few towns over for the day, and her usual child-minder couldn't take him. (Aziraphale had given Crowley a sharp look, but he _hadn't_ done any demonic miracles to get a day of babysitting, honest he hadn't!) Aziraphale had tickled his very tiny round tum while she walked Crowley through the complicated wraps and folds of the baby sling he liked best, left them with plenty of bottles and food and sincere gratitude, and taken off, to return eight(ish, depending on traffic and okay there _might_ be a small snarl planned for around rush hour but that was hardly anything _special_) hours later.

Crowley had put everything away, giving Aziraphale more baby-holding time, because he was too nice for his own good. Which wasn't to say it wasn't incredibly sweet to come into their front room and find Aziraphale in his easy chair, baby cuddled up to him, cooing down at the little mite.

He looked up and smiled at Crowley, and then touched Ieuan's little button nose. “All right, my dearest. Uncle Crowley's back, so I've had my time with you.” He kissed Ieuan's forehead, smiling into the baby-smell, and helped Crowley get him situated.

“There we are,” Aziraphale said, and kissed Crowley for good measure. The demon was already a little starry-eyed, just from having an infant strapped to his chest.

“Thanks,” Crowley said, slipping an arm around Aziraphale's shoulders. “Uh.”

“It's all right,” Aziraphale said, managing to hug Crowley and the baby at the same time. “I remember how you were with Warlock.” A little kiss to his cheek. “Besides, he's got to come out of there sometimes, for diaper changes and things. I'll get my chance later.”

Crowley smiled. “Maybe,” he said, smiling down at Ieuan, who gazed up at him out of wide, baby-blue eyes. And immediately went for a long lock of curly red hair, yanking with surprising strength.

“Urk,” Crowley said. And then, “Oh, that's why Seema got the pixie cut.”

“Don't you _dare_,” Aziraphale said. “Sit down, I'll braid your hair back. We ought to've done this before, I remember how the littles in the ark were with you.”

“I swear that didn't hurt as much,” Crowley said, settling himself and Ieuan, who was doing his best to eat Crowley's hair. “You're extra-strong, aren't you?” he asked the baby, who squeaked an affirmative, definitely. And got a double-handful to gum at.

“Or you're getting tenderheaded in your old age,” Aziraphale teased. He brushed Crowley's hair back, trying to get the worst of the baby spit out, and tightly plaited and pinned it up, safe from grabby hands. “At least you didn't put in long earrings today, love.”

“Mmm. Thought ahead that much,” Crowley admitted, when Aziraphale touched the gold studs in his ears. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” Aziraphale leaned over and kissed the top of his head, at the same time giving Ieuan a fingertip to gum on. “There now, no hurting your auntie,” he teased the baby gently. “Yes, that's much better, isn't it?”

Ieuan, busy gnawing, did not answer.

“Now sweetheart, I'll teach you how to check the houseplants over for the slackers,” Crowley informed Ieuan.

“Oh, don't yell in front of the baby,” Aziraphale begged.

Crowley looked shocked by the very idea. “Never! But he's not to young to learn to check for spots,” he said, heading for the conservatory.

Aziraphale sighed and trailed after. Not so much because he was worried but because he was, well, curious. Also, watching Crowley interact with babies was one of his favourite things in life. It was a shame they grew up so fast; why, Warlock had been walking and talking in an instant it seemed! At least they kept making new ones for them to coo over.

He wound up quietly following Crowley about all morning, absolutely enchanted. Of course it was just generally adorable to see the demon, sunglasses off (they'd checked with the googles and Ieuan definitely wasn't making long-term memories just yet), showing the baby their world. The sling held him firmly in place, squished pleasantly against Crowley's chest, but he often kept an arm around him too, a little hug, unless he truly needed both hands for something.

And best of all was the quiet running commentary, simultaneously hilarious and touching. Aziraphale sort of pretended to read as he settled in the conservatory, to give them both cover, but he was pretty sure he wasn't fooling anyone.

“Now, see this calathea? Yes, it's daytime, so the leaves are unfolded, but just you wait, when the sun starts setting, it'll fold up, all ready for night. You see, all living things have their cycles,” Crowley explained. “This one knows how to behave, at least. Not like the string-of-pearls I have _repeatedly_ had to speak to about _failing to be round_,” he said, peering at the trailing vines, quivering gently.

After the plants had been put in their places, Crowley walked Ieuan through their wine collection, a closet that had mysteriously appeared soon after they moved in. Aziraphale was not one hundred percent sure this was the kind of thing appropriate for a baby, but Ieuan cooed and made a happy noise at a particularly nice Malbec, so he supposed he could allow it.

So they made a happy little trail through the house for several hours. Nappy changes went quickly, the two of them never having lost the knack of them. (And it was easier with two, Aziraphale had to admit: one to change and one to distract the baby with tickles and stuffies. They should have figured this out with Warlock; Nanny would have had fewer blouses to miracle clean.)

After lunch they settled in the sitting room again, taking in the few rays of weak winter sunlight. Crowley had stolen Aziraphale's usual spot in the window to point the world out to Ieuan, telling him about all the wonderful things waiting for him to get just a little bit bigger and not incidentally enjoying the soft weight of a baby head resting on his chest.

Aziraphale settled on the sofa, intending to just rest his eyes. He wasn't the one who napped, that was Crowley. And besides, they might need him for something. What, he wasn't quite sure – Crowley had baby-caring well in hand, and Ieuan was just as taken with the demon, so maybe they didn't need him. Such a silly thing to think, that he might be needed, or be a help...

“Yes,” Crowley murmured to Ieuan. “He just needs a little nap. Let's make him comfortable, hey? He likes comfort, our angel.” He spread a blanket over Aziraphale, light enough to not disturb him, but wonderfully warm against the coming chill of night. The softest pillow they had was already under his head, so that was all right, no need to miracle anything else into place.

Crowley plopped down next to the sofa, cross-legged, and smiled down at the baby. “He doesn't nap much,” he explained softly. “But I think he needs this. Oh, not because of you, sweetheart, or even because of me. You see – well. You've seen our life, and how happy it is. How happy _he_ is. We make him happy, you and me, and that's my greatest pride. But our angel, he's carrying an old wound. Not something you can see, but it's there. He used to...used to live among people who didn't value him. Who didn't love him like we do, and that left a mark.” Crowley was quiet, stroking Ieuan's back. “I know you won't remember any of this,” he murmured. “But I hope you somehow remember this. People can carry great hurts, but not show it. Aziraphale's like that. So we have to take care of him, while he heals the hurt, you know? We have to love him, and show him he's special. And sitting here while he naps, being right here, that's how we love him. Besides, I like being near him,” he confessed to the baby. “Don't you?”

Ieuan smiled and waved his arms, an obvious yes.

“I thought so.” Crowley kissed his head. “You can nap too,” he offered generously. “I'll watch over both of you, if you want.”

But Ieuan stayed awake, eyes wide and watching even as he settled against Crowley's chest and quieted, and demon and baby kept their little vigil over the sleeping angel.

And they were both there with kisses when Aziraphale stirred and blinked awake and smiled at them.

“You two have a good time while I slept?” he asked, voice a little scratchy with sleep still.

“Mmmhmm. We watched you snore, it was very educational,” Crowley said.

“I do not snore!”

“He'll tell you he doesn't lie, either, but do you believe him?” Crowley asked Ieuan. “No, you do not, because you're the cleverest baby in the world.”

Aziraphale smiled and reached out, petting baby-soft hair, and then cupping his hand to Crowley's cheek. “You didn't stay here the whole time, you ridiculous thing?”

“Of course we did. Got to stand guard over sleeping angels.” Crowley turned his head and kissed Aziraphale's palm. “Here, you take the baby a bit, I'll get tea started. You want the sling?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “You keep it, we'll just have a little snuggle here.”

Crowley freed Ieuan from the swathes of fabric and handed him over, quietly relieved that he was just as happy to go to Aziraphale, babbling and giggling as soon as he was in the angel's arms. A pair of kisses dispensed, he headed for the kitchen to warm Ieuan's next bottle and throw together a quick tea for himself and Aziraphale, just to enjoy eating as a little family.

“Look at your little fingernails,” Aziraphale whispered, smiling and playing, tickling Ieuan's feet. “Look at your little you. Oh, you're perfect. I hope you always know that. Have you been having a good day with Crowley? I am sure you have. He's wonderful, isn't he? So easy to love. I'm glad you love him too. More people ought to, even though I'm selfish and like to have him to myself.” Aziraphale smiled, and kissed the baby's forehead. “But I guess I can share today.”

Ieuan gave a happy little shriek, and Aziraphale laughed, getting up to walk him over to the window and look out into the now-dark world. Everything felt warm and close and good in the well-lit room, the clank of the heating system just adding to the atmosphere.

Crowley came to get him for tea, accomplished by passing the baby back and forth and eating when one's hands were free. Not that they ate very much; fussing was much more fun, even for Aziraphale.

(To be fair, Crowley mostly held Ieuan, and Aziraphale mostly held them both, treasuring his Crowley being so soft and so full of joy.)

Perhaps the softness brought a pang of conscience, since there were only the normal number of traffic snarls, and Seema picked her son up about the time she'd promised them.

“We had a wonderful day,” Aziraphale assured her, while Crowley said his goodbyes. “Truly, we'd be happy to watch him anytime.”

Seema thanked them again, and laughed and politely refused when Aziraphale offered to walk her home. “It's a few blocks!”

“Still.”

She smiled and, to their surprise, gave them both hugs. “I'm sure I'll see you around. Rhys gets home tomorrow, so I can be an adult and go to the pub to watch the football.”

They assured her they would probably see her indeed, and saw her and Ieuan off at the garden gate.

Later that night, Aziraphale went in search of Crowley, having a hunch that his demon boy might need a cuddle of his own. The conservatory was cold and dark, and a little to his surprise he found Crowley in his library.

“All tidied up, sweetheart,” he reported, going over to kiss Crowley's head. “All right then?”

Crowley smiled at him. “I'm fine, angel. A day of baby time was enough for me.”

“Just making sure,” Aziraphale said peaceably, settling down beside him and reaching for his book. He was entirely unsurprised when Crowley settled down with his head in Aziraphale's lap, playing on his phone in quiet contentment. Probably something with Twitter; that always made him very happy, and everyone else very _un_happy.

Aziraphale boarded his train and found a quiet seat in one of the sparser cars, settling down with a sigh of relief. He watched the Bentley still waiting in the car park as the train pulled away, and managed a grudging smile. Crowley was, well, extremely Crowley sometimes, but he was also a very good partner, when you got down to it.

And this weekend they were going to be very good partners with a _good_ chunk of distance between them.

One of the best parts of settling down as a couple, Aziraphale sometimes thought, was learning that you could love someone with every fibre of your being, and simultaneously definitely be ready to put them into a shallow grave given opportunity and a stout shovel. (He assumed most people could be assured that their beloved wouldn't then climb out of said grave in a _very_ bad mood.) Crowley was the love of his life but he was also short-tempered, sarcastic, abrasive, loud, and had turned 'being obnoxious' into a high art-form. And, in return, he had accused Aziraphale of being stuffy, self-righteous, boring and entirely too devoted to his books and not enough to keeping up with society.

Aziraphale pointed out that he owned a _computer_, thank you very much, and Crowley pointed out, in turn, that there were MP's currently serving in government who were younger than Aziraphale's computer, so that no longer counted.

There had been some short words, and the some longer ones, and then a mutual agreement that Aziraphale had been intending to have a girls' weekend with Madame Tracy and Anathema, and now might be just the time. They could do some Christmas shopping, perhaps. Anything, to get a little time talking to people who weren't the other member of their little marriage-couple-our-side-family...thing.

Aziraphale took distinct joy in calling Madame Tracy, who knew from uncooperative spouses, and she in turn called Anathema and they all agreed that Gloucester would be _lovely_ this time of year. Anathema handled the booking of a lovely little house just a short walk from the train station, Aziraphale handled the miracle that had the perfect house come free for them at an extremely reasonable price, and Madame Tracy took on the British Rail website with courage well-paid-back in tickets that did not cost the earth, and did not feature rail replacement for _anyone_.[10]

And so Crowley dropped him off with a kiss and a happy wave, and Aziraphale headed north to the borderlands, or nearly so – he was always a bit fuzzy when it came to country borders – a satchel of select bottles of wine at his side and his trusty Gladstone bag on the rack above him. It was a grey December day – perfect for a cup of tea from the catering cart, a packet of crisps, and a good dive into some M.R. James.

Madame Tracy kindly met him at the station and they walked back together – Anathema had been detained by something or other to do with work, or Newt's work, it wasn't quite clear, so it would be just the two of them until tomorrow.

They were always just a bit formal with each other to start; Aziraphale never could quite forget that he had possessed her at one point, and Madame Tracy (now generally referred to only as Trace, Tazza to very close friends, but eternally Madame Tracy to Aziraphale) was still not sure how she felt about such things. Not least because Aziraphale had, well, seen inside her head. And he was an _angel_. You didn't really want to be the one to take an angel's innocence.

She mentioned this after they had settled at the kitchen table over cups of tea. Aziraphale absolutely needing refreshing after his train journey, and Madame Tracy was very excited to make a cup of tea that wasn't technically a syrup.

“Oh, my dear.” He smiled kindly at her. “I hate to tell you, but you did no such thing.”

“Oh! I. Well, _that's_ good. Er. I think?”

“Quite good, I suppose,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully, sipping his tea. “Surely you know that Jesus had no problem with sex workers. Why should Heaven?”

“Well, I suppose when you put it that way.” Madame Tracy smiled, thinking. “It's just, well, you know people these days,” she said, waving her hand to encompass the entire history of the Christian church since 300 AD or thereabouts.

“Indeed,” Aziraphale sighed. “It was always very _dull_ to show up and have everyone miserable. And the years they cancelled Christmas!” He shuddered. “I got out of England as much as I could, I don't mind telling you.”

“I certainly don't blame you. Mr Shadwell and I went to Majorca last Christmas, and it was such a change! Good for the soul,” she mused, and winked at him. “Though you know all about that, I suppose.”

Aziraphale smiled, and toasted her with his tea. Oh, this was going to be a delightful weekend!

It only improved when Aziraphale went out to scavenge for some takeaway curry to accompany one of the bottles of wine he'd brought with him. They promised themselves they'd only split the one bottle, if that, and never mind that they picked quite a large one. There was catching up to do.

“I know how he comes across,” Madam Tracy was trying to explain. “And he's certainly not Prince Charming. But he's very...real,” she said thoughtfully. “When he puts his mind to a thing, he follows through. And we've shared so much, over the years.”

“I understand,” Aziraphale said, more kindly than he really meant to. “The heart wants what it wants, eh?”

“You're quite right. And your young man?”

Aziraphale smiled, thinking of Crowley as young. Well, they _had_ been young once. In Eden; he'd been so very young and nervous, and his sworn enemy had been so kind to him. “He's wonderful. He's a pain in my arse, and I in his, but he's wonderful,” he said, sipping his wine. It would be so lovely when they were together again, having worked out all their annoyance. “We do need this little break from one another, I think, but that's quite normal, isn't it?”

“Absolutely,” Madam Tracy assured him. “He does love you very much, you know. It was very easy to see.”

Aziraphale went a little pink. “Er, yes. I know that now. I was...willfully blind, I think. For some time.” He smiled down at the tabletop. “He's very patient with me.”

“And you with him, I think,” Madam Tracy said. “You're each as bad, and as good, as the other.”

Aziraphale looked up, a little surprised at this quiet bit of seriousness. And, frankly, how good she was at seeing right through both of them.

“I've seen a lot of humanity over my years,” she reminded him. “Quite a lot more than they meant to show me, some of them. And I know you and Crowley aren't humans, but you're close enough.”

“I suppose so,” Aziraphale said. “Just – different time scales. And miracles and scaly feet and wings and all that of course.” He paused. “Well, a lot of things. But enough that's like humans.” He poured them each another glass of wine. “He_ is _very patient with me, I'll give him that. Moreso than I deserve, sometimes.”

Madam Tracy shrugged. “Sometimes we get things like that. Perhaps I won't always have Mr. Shadwell, but I've got him now, and he's got me.”

“No, we're not like that,” Aziraphale said slowly. “I'm sorry, I'm being rather rude. But I – I know.” He smiled. “Crowley wouldn't ever leave me, nor I him. Ever.”

“Well, I'll trust you on that.” Madam Tracy took another drink of wine, and gently changed the topic to dissecting every tidbit they know of Anathema and Newt's relationship, in true old biddy gossip fashion.

Aziraphale happily changed topic with her, but he held this knowledge in his heart, cradling it with both hands. He and Crowley were forever. They weren't humans, and he could know such things, that the thought of one of them leaving the other was simply inconceivable, and that was all there was to it.

Even if he was _unbelievably happy_ to be several geographic features away from him, and having a good old wine-soaked gossip with friends.

10 Aziraphale may have worked several miracles, come to think of it.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really ought to write more Madam Tracy, she's wonderful!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's basically Christmas season in Britain, so I don't feel so bad about this :)

Aziraphale did not go to church. Which was an odd thing for an angel, perhaps, or not odd at all. Church, and priests, were for connecting humans with the Divine. Aziraphale had his own line – sort of – and anyway, he wasn't much fussed anymore with even trying to talk to God. At best he'd get the Metatron, and at worst he'd get some poor low-level angel who really, truly, deeply did not want to deal with him. And vice-versa.

Perhaps it was better to say that Aziraphale didn't go to church services; he quite liked churches and had a small personal collection of brass rubbings he'd made over the years. Admittedly, his visitation rate had gone down, but that was mostly due to Crowley not exactly being able to join in on the fun. And the adventures he had with Crowley more than made up for missing a few old churches.

But so it was that on midnight, as Christmas Eve turned to Christmas Day, when in the old days it was said the Christ Child flew overhead to give gifts, Aziraphale was home in front of a crackling fire, arms around his beloved. They had decided to stay up for the night, both of them enjoying the magic of the light against the darkness and the bright stars overhead.

They had started the night curled up in the dark conservatory, sharing a blanket and a hot toddy. Mindful of his cold-blooded demon, Aziraphale had wrapped him up first in the warmest blanket they owned, then in his arms, and finally his wings blanketed them both. Crowley was in charge of holding the mug of steaming whiskey, milk, honey and spices, and held it to Aziraphale's lips so he could sip it. Funny, how it never seemed to cool too much, nor the level inside the mug go down.

“Are you sure I should be doing this for you?” Crowley teased, holding the mug so Aziraphale could sip. “Seems a bit...evocative.”

“Oh, hush. It's not at all like communion, and you know it,” Aziraphale grumped. “Oh, look, a shooting star!”

“Did you make a wish?” Crowley asked.

“Wouldn't you like to know.[11]” Aziraphale kissed his temple. “Are you warm enough, dear?”

“Of course. You fuss too much.” Crowley was sat in Aziraphale's lap, and even though the tip of his nose was quite chilly, he found he liked that – it contrasted so nicely with the toasty sensation of the rest of him. And it did warm him when he sipped from the mug, so he made sure to do that regularly.

They watched the night sky together until Crowley had seen a star fall too, and they had kissed themselves warm to their bones, enjoying the icy night. They didn't really celebrate Christmas, but it was good to do something special. The heart needed nights like this, Aziraphale reckoned, even nonhuman hearts like theirs.

When the chill and the dark of the conservatory got to them, it was a simple decision to move to the sitting room. Crowley lit a fire and Aziraphale sorted out the lamps and candles until they were bathed in light.

“Music?” Aziraphale asked.

“You pick,” Crowley said. “It's kind of your night. In a way.”

Aziraphale gave him a side-eye. “You spent more time with Him.”

Crowley shrugged. “S'pose.”

So Aziraphale kissed him, and went to put on a record – some of Bach's cantatas that he knew Crowley certainly didn't hate.

“Your lot got him, I assume,” Crowley asked.

“Mmm. Him and Liszt, although _please_ do not ask me how that man got in after all the...everything,” Aziraphale said darkly.

“Darling, questioning Heaven is what I _do_,” Crowley drawled, and Aziraphale shocked himself with how hard he laughed, and how he threw his arms around Crowley and kissed him.

Crowley half-picked him up and Aziraphale kicked his legs out a little, giggling as Crowley held him tight, took his weight without even batting an eye, and kissed him again.

Slowly, so gently, he lowered Aziraphale to the floor, arms still tight around him.

“I love you,” he whispered, as sacred music chased itself around them, and Aziraphale kissed him back.

“I love you,” he promised, touching the edge of Crowley's eye, where the lines were when he smiled. How lucky he was. He'd witnessed every Christmas night that ever was. He'd often been with Crowley, but this wasn't even their first Christmas as _them_. You always remembered the first, of course, but he thought someday he'd have to work hard to remember the second, because there would be so many that just ran together, and this made him smile and draw Crowley over the sofa.

They held each other and watched the fire, and Aziraphale lost himself in the music, the interplay of voices. The songs Bach had written so quickly, a jobbing _capelmeister_, the joy they had brought to so many singing through the centuries.

Aziraphale felt tears spring to his eyes as one of the choruses started, the voices joined together in perfection.

“Oh, angel.” Crowley kissed his temple. “Tell me what's wrong.”

“Nothing.” Aziraphale found his handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. “I'm so happy, I promise.” He leaned his head against Crowley. “I love you.” He sighed. “At worst, perhaps – sometimes I miss my belief. It was very easy, when I thought I was better than you. Or I thought I was supposed to think that, anyway. Everything _should _have been easy,” he said slowly. “But it wasn't, was it?”

“No, love. I watched you struggle with it, when you thought no one was looking.” Crowley smiled. “And you _definitely_ thought you were better than me, a couple of times.”

“Fair,” Aziraphale said ruefully. “I'm sorry. I am...deeply ashamed of how I treated you.” He kissed Crowley. “I'm lucky. How are you so patient?”

“I knew you just needed time,” Crowley said. “And we had time. Until we didn't,” he admitted. “And you saw how I botched that.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “How we botched it. We both asked the other for things we couldn't give.” He laid his hand over Crowley's heart. “But now we can. I can give you all the love you'd ever want, and more. I'm only sorry it took me so long to get out of my head. It wasn't fair to you.”

“Nor you,” Crowley countered. “No, it wasn't fun for me. But. Uh. The worst of it?” He took a deep breath. “The worst of it was seeing how much you hurt. How they didn't know what a jewel you were, and you didn't know either. That was. Yeah.” He swallowed hard. “I was supposed to be hated by Heaven, not _you_.”

“_Crowley_.” Aziraphale threw his arms around him and hugged him tightly. “Oh, dearest.” There weren't words, so he just held Crowley and stroked his hair and maybe cried a little, because Bach wrote the most beautiful music and here Aziraphale was with his own beloved, listening to it on Christmas night with everything he could ever want in the world. No wonder he was very full of feelings.

“At least we were friends,” he said, when he could speak again. “I could give you that.”

“Not to be sneezed at,” Crowley said. “I needed a friend. So did you.”

Aziraphale nodded, holding Crowley's hands in his, rubbing his thumbs against the soft, thin skin of his wrists. “Indeed.” Another little kiss, and a sweet smile. “And now I have my friend, and my beloved. And we're safe.”

Crowley pulled Aziraphale back into an embrace, the two of them snuggling down properly before the fire. “I think we might be. Finally.”  
“Mmm. I've only felt little tests on my wards. Minor demons, I suppose, just checking up. You?”

“Oh. Er. Nothing,” Crowley admitted. “Not a hint of angelic energy, since that letter came through the door.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale smiled bitterly. “I should be happy about that.”

“You can feel whatever you want. I'll be happy they're leaving us alone, and angry that they don't know enough to fight for you.” Crowley brushed the back of his hand across Aziraphale's face, a little caress. “I would be chaining myself to our front door.”

“I would stay in Heaven forever, if you were there,” Aziraphale said, and kissed between Crowley's eyes. “But I like our life here better, darling.”

“Me too.” Crowley said. “Obviously. C'mon, cuddle up before you get chilly.”

Aziraphale knew that Crowley knew perfectly well that he didn't really ever feel the cold, but he did as asked. Crowley was taller, just, but Aziraphale took up more space; yet somehow he managed to wrap himself in demon, protected and held against the world. Crowley bussed the top of his head, and Aziraphale smiled.

“I'm all right,” he promised. “I don't really want to be fought for. Over. Whatever.”

Crowley nodded, petting him until he relaxed a little more. “I know, angel. Not sure why anyone Down There cares about _me_,” he confessed.

“You were important enough to deliver the Anti-Christ...”

“And I bollocksed it up! They should be thrilled I'm not around anymore!”

Azirphale laughed and hugged Crowley a little tighter. “I'm a hero to the demon hordes?” he teased.

“Might be, might be...” Crowley grinned at him. “Think of how this looks to those that don't know. How powerful must an angel _be_, to sit unafraid in a demon's arms? To trust that I won't just tear you down out of Heaven.”

“And how powerful must that demon be?” Aziraphale countered. “To tempt an angel of the Lord, and be unafraid of my holy tools. Fonts full of holy water in every church in the land, and all.” He looked sober, suddenly. “I was afraid, long ago, that my sweat or my tears might hurt you. Neither of us knew how that worked.”

Crowley nodded, scritching soft patterns into Aziraphale's scalp. He was growing his nails out, pretty and curved and lacquered black, of course. Except for one, his left ring finger – that one he painted gold, and refused to be ashamed of how obvious he was. “But you don't hurt me – not your blood or your tears. Or anything else,” he teased, thinking of their long afternoons experimenting with where certain body parts could go, and what orgasms felt like.

“Cheek,” Aziraphale said happily. “Oh, that feels nice.”

“Good,” Crowley said, scritching gently behind one ear. “Think about us though, really. We _are_ frightening. The angel unafraid of a demon's wiles, and a demon unafraid of an angel's ruthlessness. No wonder Heaven and Hell finally leave us alone.”

“I mean, they have seen us in action,” Aziraphale pointed out dryly. “They have _some_ idea of how effective we are. Unfortunately.”

Crowley shrugged. “Details. It worked.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale smiled, and kissed Crowley's throat. “I love you. Happy Christmas, dearest.”

“Happy Christmas, angel.”

11 Yes, but some things are too romantic to speak aloud to even your heart's own beloved.[return to text]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me if I mixed up when Bach wrote his cantatas -- I'm a little immersed in a book about his music, and it's one of those can't-see-the-forest-for-the-trees things.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit different than usual, so heads-up, especially sex-repulsed readers!
> 
> OK, so this chapter is...sort of a couple thousand words of sex, but it is, for the most part, extremely not-human sex. There's one scene of penetration that I kind of vaguely describe, but even then it's explicitly not particularly human, and anyway it ends less with raunchy sex and more with Aziraphale making a terrible joke. There are a few mentions of bodily fluids, but I also definitely devote more wordcount to Crowley tickling Aziraphale. They are very loving, and very Ace about the whole thing -- it's all experimentation for a boring day, and they're mostly just curious, rather than craving orgasms, or sex, or anything like that. The focus is, as ever, that they love one another deeply, and also hey wouldn't it be cool to try this thing we've never tried before?
> 
> So! This may or may not be a chapter for you, but I can promise you that you won't miss any major character developments or plot beats if you don't read it. (There is one, slight, character moment that I've detailed in the endnotes, but even that is pretty minor.)
> 
> There is also a short bit that deals with body image and Aziraphale's body -- more details in the endnotes if you want to check if that's something you might not enjoy.
> 
> And with that, I hope you enjoy! I had a lot of fun writing this, and surprised myself a bit, I think. Totally batshit Ace sex is fun!

“Good _God_,” Aziraphale said, staring out the window. “I'd forgotten January was, well. This.”

It was grey and the sky spit freezing rain out of a low sky. In theory, as it was mid-morning and the sun was up, but it wasn't, really. It was going to be one of those days where evening started to fall about twenty minutes after lunch, he could tell.

“Angel,” Crowley whined, just to put the cherry on top. “I'm _bored_.”

“Honestly, so am I,” Aziraphale admitted, when normally he'd primly say something along the lines of 'only boring people get bored', but it was just one of those _days_.

Crowley peered out at the rain and stuck his tongue out. “Ugh.”

“Are you going to go snakey?” Aziraphale asked, a little wistfully. “Only...”

“What is it, angel?” Crowley asked.

“Only please don't. I'd miss you. I know, it's very selfish of me, and it's not like you go away, you're still you, just.” Aziraphale looked down at his hands. “I like having you here to talk to. And things. And it's such a dire day anyway.”

“Oh, Aziraphale.” Crowley's voice was soft like Aziraphale had hardly ever heard it before. “Of course I'll stay right here. Human form and all.” He crossed the small space between them and slipped his arms around his lover. “You need me to stay human, you ask, all right? I never need to go snake that bad, sweetheart.”

Aziraphale smiled at the nickname, and laid his head on Crowley's shoulder. “Thank you.”

“'Course, angel. Anything you want.” Crowley touched the edge of Aziraphale's mouth and kissed him, long and lingering. He was waiting for Aziraphale to work out that he could ask Crowley for the moon, and get it. Get several moons, probably.

Crowley was self-aware in surprising ways.

“Oh, nice,” Aziraphale breathed, and reached for another kiss.

Crowley smiled into his mouth, shifting so he held Aziraphale a little more firmly. And in slightly different places.

Aziraphale giggled as Crowley's hand settled very firmly on his bum. “Well that's one way to pass the time...”

Crowley kissed his way down Aziraphale's neck, biting a little at the soft skin there, then nuzzling when the angel gave a little gasp. “Won't be bored anymore.”

Aziraphale giggled again and shucked Crowley's shirt up, hands spanning his back, sighing a little at the skin contact. “Oh, let's experiment today? More than usual, I mean.”

“Yes, _please_!” Crowley grinned. “You know what I've always been curious about, but we haven't tried?”

“Crowley, that doesn't really narrow it down.”

Crowley laughed and lifted his angel up in a tight hug. “I know, I know. But – you know, we've never tried missionary position really?”

“So we haven't,” Aziraphale mused. “Oh, that'll be a lovely start to things, darling. Something nice and traditional.”

“And you can lie down, instead of me taking you against the wall,” Crowley said, wiggling his eyebrows.

“I've told you before, the glass is _cold_, and you will not be pressing my bottom against it until summer,” Aziraphale said firmly.

“You never let me have any fun,” Crowley said, resuming kissing. He took a moment to make the appropriate effort as the wind picked up.

Aziraphale had apparently done the same thing, though finished it up with a snap, vanishing their clothes.

“Well,” he said, casting about for a comfortable spot, and spotting some pillows under a monstera. “Let's see what all the fuss is about.”

Crowley debated just how sexy this all was, but he had to admit that Aziraphale had a point – they did this kind of thing because they were bored and curious and liked to touch each other, and of course orgasms were quite nice. And he, too, wanted to see what all the fuss was about, and anyway Aziraphale draping himself over pillows and smiling up at Crowley, thoughtful and curious and playful, was all the sexy Crowley would ever need.

“That was all right,” Aziraphale had said politely, when they had finished.

“You should not have to plank when having sex,” Crowley said. “Ow.”

“I think you were being a bit careful.” Aziraphale sat up and patted Crowley's hip. “You were very good, darling, considering. I do love feeling your weight on me, you know, you didn't have to hold yourself up so much.”

Crowley preened a little, and pulled Aziraphale down for a better cuddle. “And you're very beautiful on your back, legs spread,” he said. “Good experiment, at least.”

“Oh yes.” Aziraphale cupped his hand around Crowley's jaw and kissed him, and took his time about it. “Let's get  _ creative _ ,” he suggested, and grinned, and Crowley knew he'd picked exactly the right being in the entire universe to fall in love with.

They opted to abandon the beauty of the conservatory for the comfort of their bedroom, definitely intending to have some very creative sex, as only two otherwise-bored ethereal/occult creatures could. First, though, Crowley thought it might be good to have some extremely _human_ fun.

Aziraphale threw himself on the bed with all good humour, giving a little bounce and rolling over onto his belly, starfishing out. Their duvet cover was lovely and soft, flannel for winter, and he sighed happily as he stretched, ready for some fun.

What he did not expect, but ought to have, was Crowley also bouncing onto the bed, and immediately going in to tickle behind his knees.

“Oi! You!” Aziraphale yelped and immediately curled up, trying to get the tender skin away from Crowley's fingernails.

“Me!” Crowley cackled, moving to tickle Aziraphale's sides, knowing exactly where to aim. Aziraphale was so  _ soft _ , so utterly delightful, and he squirmed and rolled away and giggled and every time he moved, he bared a new surface that Crowley know could reduce him to helpless tears of laughter. So of course he hit every single one, tickling his angel until Aziraphale was breathless and red-faced, tears leaking out of his eyes, laughing so hard he could hardly laugh at all.

Crowley finally let up and let him catch his breath, enough so that little giggles actually emitted, and Aziraphale finally opened his eyes,

“Oh my love,” he said. “Thank you. I needed that.”

Crowley blushed, unable to stop a grin, and Aziraphale gave one last chuckle before sitting up and wiping his eyes.

“Whew. I do love you.” He leaned in and kissed Crowley, long and sweet and lingering, and kissed him again until they both lay down, their bodies coming together again, embracing one another.

“Love you too,” Crowley mumbled into his mouth. “My angel. How d'you wanna start?”

“Bodies are too grounding,” Aziraphale decided. “And it's started to rain again. How d'you fancy being a nebula?”

“I don't think I ever have been,” Crowley said, fascinated.

“I'll show you.” Aziraphale smiled shyly. “Crowley, you know the galaxy I made, when I fought Michael?”

“Yeah?”

“Would it make you sad, if I were to take you there?”

“Angel, nothing in the universe could make me sad right now,” Crowley said, and meant it. “Wherever you go, I'll follow.”

Aziraphale blinked, and smiled. “Was that on purpose?”

“Hmm?”

“Whither thou goest, I shall go. Thy people shall be my people...but then,  _ you're _ my people,” Aziraphale said, and kissed him, hard. “Close your eyes, my love, and I'll show you. Come with me, and be among the stars I made.”

Crowley made a soft noise, and closed his eyes, and then he didn't have eyes anymore. With Aziraphale showing the way, it was easy to get the knack of things. To fling himself out into the firmament in a very specific way – to the extent that he  _ was _ a himself anymore, which he wasn't.

Aziraphale took him across the universe. Aziraphale surrounded him, his spirit and his love and the smell and feel of him, the  _ being _ of him, and Crowley understood. He could always go here, and be surrounded by Aziraphale, and it would be good. Not in the human way they loved so much, but in the ethereal way that was like getting drunk, getting bigger than himself.

They were nebulae, passing through one another, no boundaries and no surfaces, and the whole dark universe to play in, hurling themselves through infinity, and Aziraphale's stars burned deep in Crowley, and he watched his angel, now not even really an angel, glory in the light he made and his own stars and colours and the way he filled space, the way he and Aziraphale stopped being them and became something else for an exquisite, immeasurable time.

Aziraphale threw them back into their bodies before too much time could pass, knowing they wouldn't be happy as galaxies forever.

Aziraphale licked his lips and ran his tongue over his teeth, cracked his jaw and opened his eyes. Right.  _ Two _ eyes, he had  _ two _ . Same for limbs. Human corporation, yes, okay, well, minus the Effort, because why bother until he saw what Crowley wanted to do next. He should have next choice, since Aziraphale had picked this.

Crowley – poor thing, he'd never been a nebula before, and it was a little hard to remember you were so small, sometimes. Aziraphale rolled over and checked on him.

Not breathing or blinking, but that was pretty much Crowley's natural state if he got too distracted, so Aziraphale wasn't worried. He propped himself on one elbow and rubbed Crowley's chest with his other hand, helping call him back to his corporation. Oh, the sweetheart, he still had his Effort, and very lovely it was too. Aziraphale leaned over and kissed his shoulder, and Crowley drew breath, just like it was a story.

“Take your time,” he said. “We were only gone an hour or so, you've all the time in the world.”

Crowley nodded, and took a few more experimental breaths, then licked his lips.

“Kiss?” he requested, and of course he got one, Aziraphale giddy with being  _ asked _ for something. Usually it was the other way around, and he did so love to spoil Crowley and treat him and give him all the good things Crowley had given  _ him _ .

“You were wonderful,” Aziraphale said. “Utterly beautiful. Beguiling. I love you.”

“Oh, angel.” Crowley breathed again, carefully, blinked his eyes deliberately, and rolled over to faceplant in Aziraphale's chest.

Aziraphale rubbed his back, quiet and calm and in love, just holding Crowley close and helping him back to himself.

“All right then?” he asked, when Crowley's breathing was back in a rhythm, and he had settled a little more carefully, sharing Aziraphale's pillow.

“Wonderful. Angel, I can't...” He smiled, eyes wide and wondering. “You were everywhere. Your galaxy – Aziraphale, you're so  _ beautiful _ . You enveloped me. I'm so happy. I'm sorry, I didn't understand before. I could go there and never be alone.” He hugged Aziraphale fiercely. “Not as good as this. But I understand now.”

“Never as good as this,” Aziraphale agreed, stroking Crowley's long hair, smoothing the soft waves. It was so long now it hardly held a curl, unless it was humid or Crowley really worked at it. “But a good experiment?”

“The best,” Crowley assured him, snuggling happily. “I loved being nebulae together, thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Aziraphale closed his eyes, savouring their physicality, the way their bodies pressed together. Crowley was so firm and strong in his arms, so  _ there _ . The way he changed the shape of Aziraphale's body by existing, the way his hand gently pressed into a thigh, their bellies coming together, the way Aziraphale's fingers made the softest dents between Crowley's shoulder blades. All of these things were so human, and so lovely.

“Your turn next,” Aziraphale murmured. “When we're ready.”

“Ooooh.” Crowley smiled, and pressed his mouth against Aziraphale's chin, an extended kiss, or a taste of him, or just contact. “Let me plan something really good.”

Aziraphale smiled and settled in, happy to doze and rest and be in his body again, ready for the next surprise.

Much, much later:

“That was tickety-boo as _fuck_,” Crowley gasped, catching his breath.

Aziraphale just moaned softly, and remembered how bodies worked. Well, tried to. He was pretty sure he had one at the moment, anyway, and it seemed important.

Crowley flopped over, rolled a little, was grateful their bed wasn't  _ very _ big, and put his arms around Aziraphale, helping the angel back to earth, so to speak. They had absolutely outdone themselves, and Crowley managed something like a crooning sound and – oh good, yes, yes, he had an arm and a hand, and could rest the hand on Aziraphale's hair, and pet him nicely.

Aziraphale nuzzled closer, precious as anything, and Crowley smiled and snuggled him tenderly. The angel still had a few too many arms, and it was very nice being hugged three times more than usual. Crowley himself retained a thin layer of feathers where normally he would have body hair; they could work their way back to fully human corporations in time. Right now he giggled when Aziraphale nuzzled his chest, then smoothed the feathers back down.

“Feathered breasts,” Aziraphale murmured. “Beautiful. No sense o'course, not...not biologically  _ correct _ . But boo'ful.”

“Thank you,” Crowley said, as Aziraphale found a nipple and did some nice things with his tongue. Ooooh, he'd split his tongue for this – what a darling Crowley's angel was. He tilted his head back and made encouraging noises while Aziraphale suckled gently, the two of them enjoying themselves immensely.

“Wonderful, my dear,” Aziraphale said. He was down to the normal number of arms, which Crowley guessed was fine. He'd really  _ liked _ being held that firmly, but it wasn't as though Aziraphale's cuddles lacked anything like this.

“No thanks to you,” Crowley teased.

“You always say laughter is sexy!”

“Not when you're comparing us to a plug!” Crowley grinned, because he had to razz his angel, but also – well, it  _ had _ been funny, and watching Aziraphale lose all self-awareness in laughter was maybe the best thing Crowley could imagine.

Aziraphale sighed and put his hand between Crowley's legs, smiling at what he found. “ _ Three _ vaginas. Demon, you are just  _ greedy _ .”

“Of course,” Crowley bragged, very proud of how he'd arranged things, three vulvas in a little triangle formation. Of course, Aziraphale had manifested three cocks to match, which had been very fun even when Crowley was slowly sinking down onto him and moaning and doing all the messy bits with the trembling thighs and things, and his  _ ridiculous _ angel had piped up to ask which was the grounding prong, because they looked just like a plug and socket.

And then  _ smiled proudly _ , before they both lost themselves in laughter, Crowley actually toppling off of him and shrieking his indignity the whole time.

Aziraphale touched one of his clits and raised an eyebrow; Crowley shrugged. “I'm up for another round, love, if you are.”

“I think greedy demons should get what they want,” Aziraphale decided, and reached for a kiss, his tongue still split and his fingers dancing between Crowley's legs, suddenly quite a lot more than the usual number. Crowley spread his legs wider and lay back, moaning happily around the kisses as Aziraphale did what he did best – namely, made Crowley happier than he ever dreamed possible.

They kissed and cuddled a little more, when Crowley had finished with the screaming and thrashing and orgasms that soaked Aziraphale's arm to the elbow. He was still feathered, though flat-chested now, and his hair cascaded down nearly to his ankles.

“Don't get used to that,” he groaned, as Aziraphale exclaimed in joy. “Special occasion.”

“Of course, darling,” Aziraphale said, pressing a kiss to one incredibly long lock. “Oh, you're so beautiful.”

“So're you,” Crowley mumbled. “You wanna'n'orgasm, baby?”

Aziraphale giggled – he was already back in his usual corporation; he did tend to snap back faster than Crowley did. “Wouldn't say no. But oh, it's not fair – you're giving me so many gifts, love.” He snapped his fingers down and –  _ oh _ .

Crowley sat up, blinking in surprise and good grief, where had that third eye come from?  _ Aziraphale _ was the one who dealt in eyes.

Not at the moment, though. Crowley gazed at a pale mirror of, well – himself. Aziraphale was thinner than usual, a thing that make Crowley squint, not sure how he felt about that. He was cream and white and blue, though, where Crowley was dark colours. Iridescent white scales glittered where Crowley had feathers – chest and belly and groin, down his legs and arms. He had small, curved breasts, and silver-blonde hair cascaded down as long as Crowley's, tumbling around Aziraphale and framing his body.

“Oh, darling,” Crowley breathed.

“Any requests for my Effort?” Aziraphale asked.

“Anything you like. Or none at all. Zira, you're so beautiful.” Crowley gathered a handful of hair and kissed it, amazed at the cascade of curls. “Why are you slender now?”

“Because I wanted to match you,” Aziraphale said. “That's all, I promise. My tummy's not going anywhere.”

“See that it doesn't,” Crowley ordered. Well, they'd been stars and multi-limbed and -winged and -dicked, for that matter, beings, so he wasn't going to fuss too much about Aziraphale's body being a match for his, as long as it was strictly temporary. He'd have to remember this little trick for another time, though, see how the angel liked it from the other end of things. Give  _ him _ a taste of round belly and soft arms and thighs and pretty stretch marks that gleamed in the light.

That was later, though – now he had rainbow-pale scales to kiss, and breasts and lips and planes of skin to worship with fingertips and tongue. Aziraphale, never a huge fan of identifiable genitals, had taken him at his word and was smooth and soft between his legs, utterly sexless. And, in Crowley's opinion, utterly perfect. Their hair tangled together and they giggled in between kisses and caresses. Crowley delivered the promised orgasm efficiently if lovingly, knowing well that the two of them were genuinely more interested in touching and exploring one another.

Aziraphale braided chunks of their hair together, a rope of silver and red as thick around as his wrist, and they admired the beauty of it, and of the way scales and feathers lay against each other. Aziraphale poked his own ribs, visible in this body, and giggled at his silliness while Crowley launched another tickle attack; shorter this time, as they were more tired, more mellow and sweeter, but still leaving Aziraphale on his back, giggling weakly as Crowley kissed tears of laughter from his face.

“I love you so very much,” Aziraphale said warmly, pulling him down for a proper cuddle. “What a wonderful day. Thank you.”

“Thank  _ you _ ,” Crowley said, and kissed his cheek. “Angel?”

“Mmm?”

“Tomorrow's s'posed to rain too. Want to go for a drive?”

“That would be absolutely lovely,” Aziraphale said. “Pick a direction, stop at all the historical houses?” He had, obviously, bought them both National Trust memberships for about as long as there had been an National Trust.

“As long as they have gardens too. It's not going to rain  _ hard _ ,” Crowley said, and they smiled at one another, and kissed, pleased to have more adventures already planned out.

“I'll hold the umbrella for you so you can take pictures anyway,” Aziraphale promised. He gave a little shiver, and was back in his familiar body, and Crowley could cry he was so happy to be in love with this creature.

“Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful,” he praised. It took more concentration on his part, but Aziraphale held him patiently and petted his hair, and soon enough he was back to usual himself.

“Beautiful you,” Aziraphale said, and rested a hand on Crowley's chest. “Let's have supper in tonight? I feel lazy.”

“We did  _ quite _ a lot today,” Crowley noted, and kissed Aziraphale's curls, short and fluffy again. “Dinner in bed, darling? I'll make you something.”

“Oh, would you?” Aziraphale looked winsome and sweet and like he wanted things, and Crowley wanted nothing more than to give him everything he'd ever even slightly desired.

“My pleasure.” Crowley stretched and groaned and grinned. “In a moment. You've gone and worn me out, angel.”

“Take as long as you want,” Aziraphale promised, tucking the duvet around them somehow, and making sure Crowley was nice and snug and warm. “We have forever, after all.”

“Sappy angel,” Crowley scolded gently, settling in for a  _ very _ good cuddle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiniest bit of character development: Aziraphale takes Crowley to the galaxy he created when he fought Michael, and Crowley realizes that it's a place of comfort and joy, where he's completely surrounded by Aziraphale.
> 
> Potential body image stuff: At one point, Aziraphale transforms to intentionally be a mirror of Crowley, and his body changes to match Crowley's as well. Crowley checks in with him carefully about this, and is satisfied that it's a bit of fun, and Aziraphale has no intention of changing his usual corporation. When Aziraphale changes back to his usual body-type, Crowley praises him and loves on him very openly, and they're both clearly pretty pleased with how Aziraphale looks normally.
> 
> (and a final end-note:
> 
> OBVIOUSLY the three-dicks thing is a tribute to our reigning king Landon Cider!!)


	13. Chapter 13

The light that filled their bedroom was winter-pale and winter-cold, and Crowley resented it lightly for waking him. Only lightly, though – because it meant he was awake and Aziraphale was not.

That was a thing that didn't happen terribly often, given that sleeping in was Crowley's favourite thing to do in the world. He would loll around in bed, half-dozing, long after the angel had risen for the day. (Well, perhaps not so long; Aziraphale was not the morning person Crowley had imagined him to be, and was a champion at staying in bed with a cup of tea and a book, even after he'd not slept, or had only slept a few hours and grown bored.) If it was missing its usual occupant, Crowley would immediately roll over onto Aziraphale's side of the bed and snuggle happily in a space that was, ineffably, always better than his side. They both indulged in soft things; a mattress topper and thick, fluffy duvet and more or less infinite pillows meant that there were occasionally small miracles to make room for _them_ on the bed.

None needed this morning; they'd kicked some pillows off in their sleep, and it was chilly and raw enough that they were snuggled under all blankets on offer. Aziraphale lay curled on his side, arms around a small bolster and face half-smushed into it, his hair showing pale yellow-blonde against the snowy white linen.

Snow. Huh, no snow yet this winter, and it was already February. Oh well, perhaps next year. And it saved them shovelling their walk. And Mrs Prothero's walk. And Mr Ellis, who had a dickey heart and blustered a lot about how he didn't need anyone to shovel and anyway _last_ February they'd had to sneak out at two in the morning to get the snow and ice off his front walk and his car and the road for good measure, and Crowley was pretty pleased to have none of _that_ in his immediate future.

Anyway. No snow. Winter-white light from a low, cloud-filled sky, and bare-bones branches against it just outside their bedroom windows. And Aziraphale fast asleep beside him, looking precious as anything. He was even drooling, just the tiniest bit.

Crowley smiled and wriggled as close as he dared, not wanting to wake the angel. They had been startlingly busy, both of them, for the last week – his Garden Club's AGM to start things off, then a lock-in at the pub. Aziraphale had hared off to London for two days of antique book shopping, getting in a much-needed trip with his barber and a spa day as well. He came back just in time to admit to Crowley that he had volunteered Crowley, and the Bentley, to deliver several boxes of knitted caps and blankets intended for premature babies at the nearby hospital.

(They had been permitted to peek into the ward with the recipients of the knitted goods, and Crowley had required several cups of extremely terrible tea in the hospital caff to recover enough to drive them home.)

Their week had ended with Crowley again playing chauffeur to take Aziraphale and some friends of his down to the coast to see a revival of some musical revue that was _straight_ out of the forties. He had enjoyed himself immensely, refused to admit it, and flirted outrageously with the carful of OAP's the entire night, men and women alike.

(He did not flirt with Aziraphale at all, as a kind of petty revenge, which just resulted in Aziraphale having a delightfully peaceful evening and heading straight for the library when he got in, to spend the night re-reading some old favourites from that time.

'You played yourself' was a concept Crowley refused to acknowledge.)

And then they'd both had all-day volunteer projects to round out the week, both of them getting home rather late, and even Aziraphale had barely stopped for a last cup of tea before tumbling into bed, asleep almost before his head hit his pillow.

Crowley hadn't _missed_ Aziraphale – after all they still lived together and shared a bed – but a week was an awfully long time to not have a whole day with your best friend in the entire universe, particularly hard on the heels of both of you making up for a couple of millennia where you only saw each other every few years at _best_.

Crowley shivered a little, thinking of that. He had once slept nearly a century! In the early days, they had easily gone tens, even a hundred years without seeing one another, and were none the worse for it! And here he was, mooning over his sweetheart after a slightly busy week. This love thing was _ridiculous_.

At least they were equally stupid about it.

Aziraphale stirred and cracked an eye, and smiled at him.

“Morning,” Crowley whispered. “Go back to sleep if you want, love, it's early yet.”

Aziraphale shook his head and, without giving up his pillow, squirmed over to shove himself into Crowley's arms, not that it took much encouragement.

“Or not.” Crowley kissed the top of his head and enjoyed immensely the sudden warmth pressed against him, right there for him to wrap arms and legs around and snuggle properly.

“Not,” came a sleepy voice from somewhere around Crowley's chest, and he smiled down at the bundle of warm, soft angel in his arms.

“All right,” he murmured, pressing more kisses to Aziraphale's curls. “Is it stupid to say I missed you?”

The bundle pressed a little closer.

“Missed you too,” he mumbled, and yawned, and tucked his head under Crowley's chin very firmly. “Missed this,” he clarified.

Crowley nodded and started to stroke Aziraphale's back, feeling wonderfully indulgent and in love and happy. “Stay like this as long as you like,” he murmured. “We have all day, sweetheart.”

They didn't quite manage all day, but another good hour of soft cuddles was had, both of them heavy and warm and sleepy under the blankets, enjoying the quiet and the chance to just be together.

“I love you,” Crowley whispered, at least a dozen times, and eventually Aziraphale got rid of the bolster and replaced it with Crowley, hugging him back and pressing kisses to his neck. Crowley would even swear he was glowing a little, he was so full of love. Strong enough that Crowley didn't need angelic senses to feel it; he just needed his own sweetheart in his arms.

They kissed some, but mostly just touched one another, reconnecting after their busy week and giggling a little at their own silliness, and how in love they were.

“I'm done with meetings for the next fortnight,” Aziraphale promised.

“I've got one down the pub on Tuesday, about creating a community garden,” Crowley confessed. “Just an hour or two, though.” He thought a moment about how these things usually went. “I'll leave after three.”

Aziraphale giggled, and kissed him. “I'll keep the home fires burning for you,” he promised.

Crowley smiled, feeling soft and indulgent and – utterly himself. If he was made for anything in the world, it was foggy mornings cuddling with Aziraphale, loving on him and being loved in return. “Stay in bed,” he said. “You were on your feet all yesterday, I'll bring you coffee.”

Aziraphale laughed – this was pampering beyond all reason and they both knew it – but he stayed in bed, still snuggled under the duvet when Crowley came up with a tray of coffee and cream and a few pastries he'd been saving for today.

“You spoil me,” Aziraphale scolded, sitting up and shifting just enough so that Crowley had a warm spot to get back to, sharing out their little breakfast.

“Yes,” Crowley said cheerfully.

“Look at your hair,” Aziraphale said, his smile sweet and soft, and he finger-combed Crowley's curls, trying to tame them a little bit.

“I just woke up!”

“I know. I love it.” Aziraphale leaned in and kissed him, a little deeper this time. “You never used to let me see you like this. Vulnerable and new to the day,” he tried to explain. “You're..._relaxed_. You don't have to worry about how you look and you know it.” He reached out with his free hand, cupping it around Crowley's cheek. “I am so privileged, to have your trust.”

“'s too early for this,” Crowley protested, going a little red.

“All right, but it's still true,” Aziraphale said, settling back contentedly. “Oooh, this one's got pecans!”

Crowley may or may not have breathed a sigh of relief. Pastry was usually a good ploy, to keep him from being known and seen and loved too keenly.

They ate together slowly, before finally rising for the day. The wind changed as they got dressed, bringing a deeper chill to the air and whistling weirdly through the eaves.

It changed the day, Crowley could swear. They parted to do what chores they didn't miracle away, and the sweetness of the early morning changed, like an instrument going out of tune. One of his orchids had died overnight, for no discernible reason, and he nearly fell down the stairs after a quick return to their bedroom for a thicker jumper.

Aziraphale found Crowley standing at the newel post squinting up into the gloom, trying to figure what the fuck he'd tripped over. He didn't _fall down things _after all. That foolishness was for humans.

Even his angel wasn't right – Aziraphale was thin-lipped and unhappy as he came down the stairs, heading for the front door.

“I'm going out for a bit,” he announced.

“Want company?” Crowley offered. If Aziraphale was upset, he'd like to be there. It was what they did for each other, after all.

“Best not, it's bitter out,” Aziraphale said. “Just need to clear my head. I won't be gone long.” The politest of 'no, dear boy, I'd like to be alone's.

Crowley nodded, and watched Aziraphale bundle up. “I'll be here,” he offered. Sometimes they both needed reminding of such things.

Aziraphale's face crumpled, just for a moment, and he came back over and kissed Crowley, very gently. “I know,” he said. “I'll...let me walk, and think. Then talk.”

“'Course, angel. Anything you need.”

Aziraphale managed the ghost of a smile for this. “Mind how you go,” he said. “I'd rather not come home to your corpse at the foot of the stairs.”

Crowley surprised himself with a laugh. It was an evil day, but here was a little light in all of it. “Promise. Mind how _you_ go. Call if you get too cold, I'll come pick you up.”

“Promise.” Aziraphale kissed his cheek, and headed out, an icy wind making Crowley shiver, even with the door open only a few moments.

With the way the day was going, Crowley took Aziraphale at his word and stayed firmly on the ground floor, curling up in the conservatory with a laptop he was fairly sure the angel didn't even know they owned. Come to think of it, he couldn't guarantee that Aziraphale could _describe_ a laptop if asked, bless him.

Smiling at his own thoughts, Crowley watched extremely stupid influencer videos while curled up under a blanket, trying his hardest to be patient. Sure, maybe he could swoop in and fix everything instantly for Aziraphale because that's what he deserved, but that wasn't the same thing as he _should_ do that. So he attempted patience, helped along by the cool air that made him slow and sleepy, even inside and wearing one of Aziraphale's thickest jumpers.

The sun was setting low and Crowley was starting to get genuinely concerned because sure Aziraphale was an immortal angelic being but he was also, at time, dumber than horseshit and Crowley didn't want to be the one pulling him out of frozen lake or something. Or finding him sat by the side of the road, lost in whatever thoughts had made him unhappy. He could just barely deal with the very concept of an unhappy Aziraphale as it was.

About when he decided to for a little drive for no reason, though, he heard the front door.

Aziraphale stalked through the house, and Crowley watched, a little fascinated, as he wrenched the door to their garden open, flung something as far as he could, and closed and locked it firmly.

“Uh,” Crowley said, blinking from his spot on the loveseat they'd installed under some of the more treelike plants.

Aziraphale turned to him, breathing deeply. “Forgive my language, my dear, but _fuck_ Heaven.”

Crowley blinked some more. How did people _do_ that all the time, it made his eyes feel weird. “Not that I don't co-sign this one hundred percent, because I really, really do, but. Er.” He scratched his head, not even sure of what to ask. “Good walk?” he finally came up with.

Aziraphale gave a short, sharp laugh. “Good walk,” he said, sitting down very firmly in a nearby chair, back upright, hands clenched, lips still thin.

“Oh,” Crowley breathed. “Oh, you're not sad. You're _angry_.”

“Got it in one,” Aziraphale said. “Took me a bloody long time to work it out, too.” He shook his head. “Sorry I ran off. Seem to have a bad habit of that.”

“You didn't. You just needed a bit of time,” Crowley said. “And anyway, you came back. What did you fling into the garden, incidentally?”

Aziraphale gave another of those awful laughs. “My ring. It won't stay flung, though, it'll be back on my hand tomorrow morning. Can't give up my halo.”

“Oh.” Crowley swallowed. Aziraphale could, but that would mean falling, and that was not worth thinking about. “Well. Shit.”

“Quite.” Aziraphale rubbed his forehead. “Crowley, I'm _angry_. I threw rocks into a pond for half an hour because a bunch of angels treated me like rubbish. What do I do with this?”

“You probably shouldn't ask me,” Crowley said. “Demons and anger...not a great combination.”

“That's why I'm asking you,” Aziraphale said testily. “You're not _just_ a demon, Crowley. You're you. I don't like feeling this way. But I don't want to just...just let it go.”

“So don't,” Crowley said. “Hoard it. Remember it. Tuck it away if you ever need it again. Throw things! Throw your ring out tomorrow, throw rocks in a pond! We can buy a load of cheap plates from the charity shop and throw them at the wall together, I'm angry too!” He shook his head. “Feel it. You're not wrong to feel it. Just don't let it poison you. It's...it's a balance.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Balance. I'm good at balance.” He glared out of the window, where the sun had nearly set, and he and Crowley sat in twilight. “Bloody stupid _bad_ angels,” he declared. “I wasn't very good at my job. But I wasn't bad enough to deserve _that_.”

“Heaven and Hell deserve each other,” Crowley observed, getting up to put on some lights. No sense in yelling at the universe in the dark. “And we've got the world now. Can't ask for better.”

“No.” Aziraphale's voice was calmer now, almost back to his usual tones. “I can't. Come here, love. May I hold you?”

Crowley plunked himself in Aziraphale's lap of course, blanket and all, snuggling close as Aziraphale somehow got his arms around all of Crowley, cradling him and warming him instantly.

“Don't you dare hide your rage from me,” Crowley said. “I can take it. Hell, I'll share it with you. I'm fucking furious at them. Gabriel telling me – you – to fucking die already will do that.”

“Not hiding,” Aziraphale said. “But I can't be angry for long. I'm not – built for it, I think. And I did throw rather a lot of rocks into a pond,” he said thoughtfully. “And the halo thing. I'll do for a bit.”

“Mmm.” Crowley wove his fingers with Aziraphale's. There wasn't any mark from the missing ring – no pale skin, nothing. As well there shouldn't be, he reckoned.

“It was you that got me thinking along those lines, of course,” Aziraphale said, when they'd held hands quietly for a few minutes. “This morning, really. When I woke up, and you were already holding me. And you told me I could rest more, if I needed it. You were so very _kind_, Crowley. I felt so loved. Deeply wanted. It's a thing I could never have dreamed of before – that anyone would love me, and hold me. Tell me to stay in bed and be warm and comfortable, and then bring me breakfast. It is such a blessing, and such a contrast.” His mouth twisted a little. “Angels are supposed to be beings of love, but I know quite well I was never loved, never even liked, never wanted. At least they hardly laid a finger on me, until the end. Just mocked me. Dismissed me. You know, little things.”

He pressed his face to Crowley's shoulder for a moment, while Crowley held him, dizzy with feeling. How few months had it been, that he'd been waking up with Aziraphale? Were there even a thousand days yet, where the angel knew he was completely loved? It was the deepest unfairness that there weren't, he was pretty sure. That it was so _recent_ that Aziraphale felt cherished and loved and cared-for.

“I loved you then, too,” he blurted out, trying to make it right. “I loved you, from the wall. I told you that, right? That that was when I knew. All those years you thought no one loved you, I did.”

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale touched his jaw, turned his head and kissed him. “I know. I knew then, that's why I was so afraid. You were so reckless in your love, and all I saw was how it could hurt you. Us.” He bumped their noses together. “But not anymore, of course. We're safe.” He sighed, and laid his head against Crowley's, still holding him close. “Suppose that's why all the feelings are happening. It's awful.”

“Completely awful,” Crowley agreed. “Dreadful stuff, knowing your own heart.”

“You're just happy I'm not still attached to the most abusive boss after yours,” Aziraphale said. “Though really, I expect they're equals.”

“Probably. Makes sense. Balance and all. And you're not wrong,” Crowley admitted. “I'm not happy-happy. But now you know you didn't do anything to deserve how you were treated. 'S'about all I ever wanted for you, angel.” He kissed Aziraphale's neck, feeling so close to him. “You didn't do anything to deserve that,” he murmured. “And if anything ever happened to me – “

“Don't say that!”

“Shush. Not planning on it. But if something _did_, you'd still know you didn't deserve it. And that you're worthy of love.” Crowley was all but speaking into Aziraphale's skin, pressing kisses wherever he could. “I'm so in love with you.”

“I love you too, Crowley. More than I can ever say.” Aziraphale stroked his hair. “Gentle, sweetheart. Everything is well. We're _both_ bloody angry, but all will be well and all things will be well.”

“I know _that_,” Crowley said, exasperated, and snuggled more happily in Aziraphale's lap. “You didn't get too cold? I'll make you cocoa.”

“In a bit. I'm warm enough,” Aziraphale assured him. “Poor snake, are _you_ keeping warm?”

“I am now,” Crowley said, basking as Aziraphale rubbed his arm, then his hip. “I'm fine, Aziraphale, I promise.”

“Good. Don't you go forgetting that you're loved, please. And that you deserve it,” Aziraphale added, because he hadn't done enough to make Crowley go red and hide his face and shake a little bit.

He was kind enough to stop then, and be quiet while Crowley did not freak out at being told such plain-speaking things. He was getting better at this, and only needed to hide his face in Aziraphale's neck for a few minutes, before he could bear to face the world again.

Aziraphale didn't sleep that night, instead sitting up with a book while Crowley dreamed in his lap, one hand resting on flame-red hair. When he felt Crowley stir, though, he set the book aside and slid down under the covers, gathering Crowley close to him, making sure he was warm and snug against the early morning cold. It was going to be another sharp day, with a wind off of the sea, and he already planned to do everything in his power to keep Crowley in the sitting room before the fire, the warmest spot in the house.

“Morning, angel,” Crowley murmured, and they kissed, brief but sweet, before he tucked himself close again. Aziraphale's heart turned over at how tender he was, mostly asleep but still seeking warmth and love.

“Morning,” he whispered. “It's another cold one, love. Stay close today, all right?”

Crowley nodded, and groped for Aziraphale under the covers. Not quite sure what he was after, Aziraphale held still, a little bemused at the clumsy movements.

And a lot touched, when Crowley found his hand and touched the gold ring. “Pfft,” he mumbled. “'s'back.”

“I told you, darling.”

Crowley made a rude noise and blinked a few times, truly waking up. “Do you have to wear it, or does it just have to be near you?”

Aziraphale blinked. “You know, I'm not sure. Probably wear it. Why?”

Crowley put his fingers around the ring and met Aziraphale's eyes, quietly asking permission. Which was granted, of course.

He pulled the ring off carefully, and slipped it onto his own finger. Not the third, this was no wedding ring, but it fit nicely on Crowley's index finger. It did suddenly occur to Aziraphale though – the next time they were in London – rings might be nice. He tucked that thought away for later, when he could be shaken to his core, recover, tell Crowley, and probably spend the rest of the day with an overly-emotional snake.

The gold gleamed on Crowley's hand and he held it out in the silver light of morning.

“Hm,” Crowley said noncommittally.

“Mmph.”

Crowley sighed, and slipped it off, and then back onto Aziraphale's hand. “I'm sorry. I thought I might...keep it for you. Near you, but not on you. But it won't work that way, would it?”

“No more than I could bear your tattoo.” Aziraphale touched the snake, and then kissed it tenderly. “You help me just by being, you know.”

Crowley just grunted, and wriggled his arms around Aziraphale, hugging him tightly for a moment. It wasn't enough, it wouldn't ever be _enough_, but it would have to do. He would have to do.

Aziraphale's heart was so full he thought he might start glowing, truly glowing like he did in his angelic form. Being loved was so much better than he'd ever thought it could be. Six thousand years since they had met on Eden's wall, and here they were, still together. Still sheltering one another, but caught up at last and going the same speed.

“You're so much more than I ever dreamed,” he murmured, hoping Crowley was close enough that he wouldn't get embarrassed. Aziraphale knew his declarations of love were silly, overwrought things, but they were the truth of his heart, and he thought Crowley might not mind so much right now, sleepy and still half in dreams. “You're everything I could ever want, but you're better, because you're _real_. Not a thing I practiced for, afraid of...of how it would be met. But you're my _now_, and my future and my past. Crowley, I've never been _afraid_ of you.”

“Oh, God, angel.” Crowley made a choking sound, but instead of hugging Aziraphale tightly, actually loosened his arms, shifted his hold, and cradled him close, on hand on the back of his head and the other around his waist, curling his body protectively. “Thank you,” he managed, voice thick. “You had so many reasons to be afraid. That you weren't...thank you.” He didn't quite want to move enough even to kiss Aziraphale, but thought this might do for the moment. If Crowley had truly been a place of rest for an often-nervous angel, then that was okay. That was good enough.

Aziraphale tucked the duvet around them both a little more securely, not a breath of cold air allowed to touch his demon boy. He figured they weren't going to be going anywhere anytime soon, and proved to be absolutely right.


	14. Chapter 14

Aziraphale touched the gold ring around the third finger of his left hand, caught Crowley's eye, and ducked his head with an abashed smile. They'd had their rings for a  _ month _ already, he was really a bit silly to still be in awe of such a thing. And it wasn't like they'd had a wedding, or anything like that. Just visited a jeweller's, and then an antique shop. 

Goodness knew how old the ring was, but Aziraphale had loved it immediately: a plain gold band that could be from any era.

“A bit like me,” Aziraphale had said, and Crowley had paid for it so fast the shop owner hadn't quite known what had hit him.

Next they had found Crowley's ring, fine sterling silver with a deep red garnet set into the band. “Wouldn't you rather a ruby?” Aziraphale had asked, when Crowley was drawn to that one.

“Nah. This is mine,” he had said with all the sureness he'd ever had, so of course Aziraphale had purchased that one for him. And the matching earrings, because they were so very beautiful, and Crowley should have more beautiful things.

They had gone back to the bookshop and opened a bottle of wine and taken turns slipping the rings onto each others' fingers. There had been a few tears from both of them, and a toast and a lot of love. And Aziraphale had ended up wearing the earrings to Crowley's delight, and even now they sat in his jewellery box.

(Aziraphale would get his revenge – in the form of great drop earrings of jet and ruby and silver – once his commission was done.)

“I know, angel,” Crowley said, because he understood Aziraphale better than Aziraphale understood his own self, some days. He reached over and took Aziraphale's hand, and raised it so he could kiss the simple ring.

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale used the contact to pull Crowley into an embrace, and kiss him properly. “I love you”

“Love you too.” Crowley smiled shyly. “I'm wearing your ring. I can feel it all the time, and I didn't think. Well.” He swallowed hard, and his smile grew. “You know.”

“I know,” Aziraphale confirmed, his arms comfortably about Crowley's waist. They had stayed close to each other since the day Aziraphale had found his rage. A little tender, a lot quiet. Aziraphale took long walks at night sometimes, but always came back home smiling and slipping into bed beside Crowley, snuggling close and getting wonderful sleepy hugs. The earth wasn't quite ready to wake from winter yet, and neither were they, though Aziraphale had noticed that Crowley spent less time as a snake than he had in the past.

Well, he wasn't complaining. And he'd knitted Crowley a new jumper, just to make sure he was snug enough.

It was a bumpy spring, when he looked back on it, and Aziraphale would forever hate that he had a patch of sadness and anger and, well, so many  _ feelings _ , in a place that was otherwise full of such joy. But, of course, there  _ were _ joys to remember. They had exchanged rings, and later they went on a little holiday in the Caribbean where Crowley presented femme and swanned around in beautiful, wispy dresses, and Aziraphale trailed behind in white linen and a cloud of gentle worship.

Ups and downs; it was all very  _ human _ .

“Good morning, darling.” Aziraphale set his book aside and slid down the bed, opening his arms for Crowley to snuggle into. He was asleep but stirring, and sometimes if Aziraphale timed this right, Crowley would remember falling asleep draped across Aziraphale's chest, and waking up the same way, with nothing in between.

He thought this might be one of those days, as Crowley fell still again, clearly still in dreams. Well, no matter; they had plenty of time. And best to have him wake in softness and comfort, as best as Aziraphale could provide.

What he ate or how much he moved his body didn't affect his corporation the way it would a human's, but Aziraphale certainly responded to the weather and the season. He was softer than ever over the winter; a little plumper, his belly a touch bigger, and Crowley responded like Aziraphale was a sun-warmed rock and Crowley was, well, a snake. Even their week in the sun hadn't changed anything, with Aziraphale firmly remaining under a parasol or beach umbrella at all times, only going into the sea at sunset, and then just up to his knees.

Crowley still had the last of his sun-induced freckles though, and Aziraphale touched the spray across his cheek with a fingertip, smiling down at him.

Crowley's eyes cracked open, just a little line of gold and black visible in the morning light.

“Hullo there,” Aziraphale whispered. “I love you so, Crowley.”

“Oh  _ no _ you're  _ mushy _ ,” Crowley mumbled, as he situated himself more firmly in Aziraphale's arms.

“I know, it's a terrible trial for you.” Aziraphale kissed the top of his head, and patiently, joyfully snuggled until Crowley was properly awake, kissing him back, and even getting a little wriggly, ready to start the day.

“Got anything planned?” Crowley asked over his morning cup of coffee, while Aziraphale scrambled a few eggs. He'd eat most of them, but make Crowley take a bite from his plate; so they shared their breakfast.

“Oh, yes, I do actually. I promised Eleanor I'd go see her – she's in hospital again, poor thing.”

Crowley made a sympathetic noise. “Do you need a ride, angel?” he asked. “I'm around all day.”

“If you don't mind?”

“No trouble at all.” Crowley came over to refresh his mug, and kiss Aziraphale on the cheek. “I have a feeling she won't need to go back for a good long spell, after this.”

Aziraphale went a little pink. “I couldn't possibly comment.”

“I love you,” Crowley said, and kissed the side of his neck. “Just let me know when you want to leave, angel, and don't worry about anything else.”

A few hours later found Crowley dropping him off with a kiss. “I'll be 'round the corner at the bakery,” he said. “Take as long as you like.”

Aziraphale headed in and Crowley soon settled down for a nice long stretch of being a pillock on Twitter. He was learning that he quite possibly was created  _ solely _ to be the source of shitposts and irritating memes. That reminded him, too – time to get TikTok and see how he could be annoying with that as well. Also, makeup tutorials.

He only had to kill an hour or so before he got a text from Aziraphale. That was surprising enough – Aziraphale had a phone, but only broadly understood texting after a lot of tutorials on Crowley's part – but it was also very short and to the point, in a particularly un-Aziraphale way.

_I'm in the car. Please can we go home?_

Crowley didn't actually miracle himself into the driver's seat of the Bentley, but that wouldn't have been terribly much faster than he moved. Aziraphale was sitting stiffly in the passenger seat, hands clenched on his lap.

“Hey angel,” Crowley said softly, as he started the car up. “We'll be home before you know it, I promise.”

“I'm all right,” Aziraphale said, while letting out a shaky breath.

“Uh huh.” Crowley hit the gas, and quite possibly set a new personal speed record. Their village wasn't too far off, at least, and he was soon pulling into their own drive, busy making plans. He'd make Aziraphale tea – no, cocoa. That was more soothing. Settle him in the front room and build a fire, and make sure there was a fuzzy blanket available. Touch and comfort if he wanted them, or a book and some peace. Crowley sort of hoped he could get in a hug though.

“God's a real shit, isn't she?” Aziraphale asked, as they got out of the car.

“Uh, well.” Crowley thought about the Angel of the Eastern Gate, and where the apple tree was, and Gabriel telling him to shut up and die already, and all of these things allegedly seen by God at all times, omniscient and omnipotent. But not compassionate, apparently. “Yes?”

Azriphale paused on their front walk and sighed, and went straight into Crowley's arms, not even bothering to get into the house yet. “It's not fair. This whole world.”

“No, love, it isn't.” Crowley held Aziraphale a little tighter, and pressed his face into the angel's neck, kissing hard. Fair would have been six thousand years of this, not less than two. Fair would be...a lot of things. Most of them bigger than the two of them, but if Crowley thought about fascism and children with cancer and homelessness and billionaires, he'd crack up. He could manage the love of his life, and a small house in a small village, and that was about his limit.

They did go into the house eventually, and Aziraphale insisted on making them both cocoa. “I'm not in a bad way,” he promised. “Stay and talk with me in the kitchen, though?”

“Of course,” Crowley promised. “And anywhere else you like.”

Aziraphale smiled at him, and set about making his fanciest cocoa, with sea salt and good chocolate and milk warmed just hot enough so it didn't get a skin.

“How's Eleanor?” Crowley asked softly, taking a seat at the table while Aziraphale chopped up a chocolate bar.

“Oh, she's fine,” Aziraphale said. “Right as rain.” He threw a sad smile over his shoulder. “Ah. As is the rest of the ward she was on. Possibly the whole hospital. I'm not...really sure.”

“Angel!” What was Crowley going to say, though? Aziraphale wasn't hurting any from the miracles he'd clearly performed, Heaven was already well warned off, and anyway, if the world made any sense at all, Aziraphale would not _need_ to perform said miracles on several hundred people because he got an itch to do so.

“I may have got a little carried away. I saw a sign for the NICU and, well.” He began to heat the milk. “I'm not sorry in the least.”

“Nor should you be. You were right. God's a real shit, when it comes to suffering.”

Aziraphale nodded, and sighed. “I don't know what to do about it. I don't like it. But I can't miracle the whole world.”

“No, love. No one can,” Crowley said. “But you do your bit. More than.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Maybe. I'd go mad, if I tried to save everyone, and that wouldn't do any good. I guess?”

“It wouldn't,” Crowley said softly. And – well. He might struggle with the words, but this was worth saying. “And. And it would hurt my heart. To ssssee you tear yourssself apart. Even for the world.”

“Oh, dear boy.” Aziraphale abandoned the melting chocolate for a moment to go over and kiss Crowley. On his lips, then under each eye, then back to the stove before anything boiled over. “I'm not having a religious crisis or anything,” he said bitterly. “I think that happened long ago. I'm just. Crowley, I just want to be _angry_.”

“'s good for the soul,” Crowley advised. “Be as angry as you like, angel. You earned it.”

“Angels aren't supposed to be angry, though. We're supposed to be calm and joyful and not chubby or soft or do miracles so babies live!” 

Crowley didn't jump when the mug Aziraphale was holding shattered. He had been expecting this since the moment after the Apoca-not, when Aziraphale had realized that he didn't have a side anymore. Or, rather, that  _they_ were their side. Or maybe for much longer. Aziraphale never had liked covering for his bosses.

At least the mug had been empty, and Aziraphale simply reached for another one, and carefully poured out the steaming chocolate and handed it to Crowley.

“Bollocks to supposed to. You're an angel, and you're angry. And soft, and chubby, and so beautiful it hurts to look at you sometimes. Ergo.” Crowley waved his hand. “Angels can be all of those things. And angels do miracles.”

“So do demons.” Aziraphale sat down and sipped his cocoa. “You couldn't bear to be in the hospital, could you?”

“No, love. I'm sorry.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Nothing to be sorry for.” He dredged up a smile for Crowley. “You are so good at teaching me to be...whole. I don't tell you enough.”

“Urk,” Crowley said. “I. What?”

“You do. All this time together – you're a good influence, Crowley.”

“I am not!”

Aziraphale's smile grew, became a little realer. “I'm sorry my dear, but you are. You know, you're the first being ever to tell me it was all right to be angry?”

“The shittiest thing is I believe you,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale nodded, and traced the woodgrain of their table with a fingertip. “It's a long learning process, isn't it? Being a real person.”

“Still working on it myself,” Crowley said softly. “But it gets better. Promise.”

Aziraphale looked up and smiled. “I believe you. I love you, Crowley.”

“You. You've been good for me, too,” Crowley said, because everything else got stuck in his throat. “Don't ever think you haven't. You. I.” How did you tell a person they gave you a reason to be soft? That they gave you a thousand new ways to love the world, and they were even more of a bastard than you wanted to be, in all the ways that counted? How did you tell your best friend that you couldn't imagine who you would be without them. That you were never a good demon, the way he was never a good angel, but that you were incredibly good at being _Crowley_, just like he was the best at being Aziraphale. And that you were pretty sure that all of that was because you loved each other; because you'd loved him from the moment you met him.

There was no possible way to say such things, so he touched the ring on his finger to the ring on Aziraphale's, and hoped that would, somehow, in some way, tell Aziraphale how very important he was.

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale breathed, and they stayed like that for a long moment, understanding one another and the strange half-anger and half-sorrow and the growing understanding that both were necessary, to be whole.

Aziraphale always said he wasn't built to hold onto anger, and he wasn't. Crowley's quiet company and the warm, rich cocoa and the safety and comfort of home meant that the ache in his heart receded. Didn't go away, but other things flowed to the front, at least until the next time. But he understood anger a little better now. And Crowley would be there to talk to, or just commiserate, the next time Aziraphale couldn't bear his rage at his creator.

The wind blew from the west and woke Crowley. All winter it had come off of the sea, a bitter salt-breeze that smelled like brine and cut him to the bone, and now it was sweet and warm. Of course nothing made it into their snug little house, but he  _knew_ .

Aziraphale was awake, though he'd moved to an easy chair by the window. Crowley stretched his arms out from under the quilts, and blinked his eyes open to see the angel set his book down and smile across the room at him.

“The wind's changed,” Crowley said.

“Spring is coming,”Aziraphale agreed. “Bet it'll be warm from today.”

Crowley gave a happy wiggle, something he'd picked up from Aziraphale. Because they lived together, and now they sometimes spoke and moved in the same ways, in the manner of those who loved each other. Crowley was delighted by this.

Aziraphale laughed and rose, coming over to sit on the edge of the bed, his book abandoned. He leaned over and kissed Crowley good morning. Or good middle of the night.

“We should start seeds today,” he decided. “Once it's light.”

Crowley nodded, gazing up at him. He was so  _safe_ here in their little bedroom, an angel watching over him. His angel. The dark was velvet-soft and comforting too. Funny that. Hell was dark, the lights always out, but it had never felt like this. He curled over onto his side, and smiled when Aziraphale started to rub his back, indulging him so much more than he deserved.

“My love.” Aziraphale brushed a lock of hair behind his ear, and carried on with the long, soothing strokes. “It's going to be a good year,” he predicted. “The roses you planted are established now. And the land's ready for us. It wasn't last year, not quite.”

Crowley nodded, and moved so his forehead rested against Aziraphale's thigh, and it felt so lovely to be petted and cuddled. “We had to pay our dues,” he tried to explain to the universe. “Can't just throw sssseeds in the ground and expect a garden.”

“No, love. You've got to nurture it and take care of it. Set it up to succeed.”

“C'mere. Lemme nurture _you_,” Crowley mumbled. Every time they talked about gardens it turned into a metaphor. He didn't love it, but right now it was all right because it meant cuddles with Aziraphale.

His angel laughed and got under the covers. And, treat of treats – manifested his wings, scooping one under Crowley's sleep-heavy body and settling the other over them, so they were in a little cave of white-gold-blue-silver feathers that smelled of frankincense and old books, and Crowley felt safer and more cherished than ever.

He got his arms around Aziraphale at least, and one leg over his hip, to make things a little more fair.

“It's going to be a wonderful summer,” Aziraphale whispered, and they kissed until the sun rose, soft little motions and reassurance and promise. Winter was over, and spring would come again, then summer, and another autumn and winter. Crowley could see the cycle of the garden if he closed his eyes, seeds germinating and growing, becoming beautiful flowers or good food, an apple he could pluck from a tree and hold out and Aziraphale would take a bite, holding Crowley's hand steady while he did so. And the scraps and bits from their meals would go in the compost pile and feed their plants again the next summer. The cycle was comforting; he thought maybe he'd lost it a little, living in London. But no; the trees changed there too. 

The most comforting things, anyway, were the constants. Champagne, good wine. BBC Radio 4 and the shipping forecast, books and sculpture and a winged podium. Oysters and the sea. All the good things of the world, the things that had been worth fighting for. And Aziraphale, more than anything else. His first friend and his only beloved, his angel and his companion. The earth could freeze and stars drop from the sky, and Aziraphale would still be there, so that Crowley was always home.

He was even telling Crowley so, reciting poetry as the world turned from night-grey to colour:

_Here, then, at home, by no more storms distrest,_

_Folding laborious hands we sit, wings furled;_

_Here in close perfume lies the rose-leaf curled,_

_Here the sun stands and knows not east nor west,_

_Here no tide runs; we have come, last and best,_

_From the wide zone through dizzying circles hurled,_

_To that still centre where the spinning world_

_Sleeps on its axis, to the heart of rest._

  
  


_Lay on thy whips, O Love, that we upright,_

_Poised on the perilous point, in no lax bed_

_May sleep, as tension at the verberant core_

_Of music sleeps; for, if thou spare to smite,_

_Staggering, we stoop, stooping, fall dumb and dead,_

_And, dying so, sleep our sweet sleep no more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done!
> 
> The final poem is from _Gaudy Night_, since I didn't get to sneak in the bit from there that I really wanted to use -- "anybody could have harmony if they would leave us the counterpoint". And I love it. (I debated leaving off Peter's verse, and not only because I have trouble really grasping it, but it does fit well enough -- they've found their place of repose, but aren't going to cease changing and growing, or lose the tension at the verberant core of music.)
> 
> I'm going to leave the series marked unfinished for a bit, in case I get ideas for one-off fics, but the long stories are over, I think. I have loved writing this so very much, and I love that you all enjoyed it too!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> dietraumerei.tumblr.com


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